


Gladly Beyond Any Experience

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Series: Gladly Beyond Any Experience [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, post-HBP, snaco, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen years after the war ends, Snape is found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gladly Beyond Any Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006 Winter Snarry Games.

_somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes  
have their silence; --e.e. cummings_

Someone smelled like bad curry.

Harry stared resolutely at the mirrored lift doors in front of him, ignoring the shuffling of the witches and wizards around him and the damned Interoffice Memo fluttering about his head, the pale violet tips of its wings catching in his hair until the witch next to him reached over and batted it away.

He sighed and looked over, giving Romilda Vane a weak smile. She smirked at him, her gaze sliding boldly down his body, and the light from the lift lamp shadowed her face as her hair fell forward. It was shiny and smooth and in what his exasperated daughter had once told him was a bob.

"Morning, Harry," Romilda murmured. She clutched a stack of files to her thin chest and bounced slightly on the balls of her feet.

"Romilda." He breathed out and stared back at the lift doors, willing them to open. There was nothing more excruciating than being caught in a lift with someone who creeped you out with the ogling. He just knew she was staring at his arse again. He shifted back, bumping the elderly secretary behind him, who hissed and jabbed him with the point of her quill.

Christ, he hated Monday mornings.

The lift lurched to a stop, the lamp in the ceiling swinging wildly.

"Level two," a witch's carefully articulated voice echoed in the lift. Harry winced. Maintenance really needed to adjust the volume again. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services."

"Mind the gap," Harry muttered.

Romilda looked over at him. "What was that?"

He shook his head. The doors opened and the sleepy-eyed witches and wizards tumbled out behind him as he started down the corridor. He bit back a groan at the sound of Romilda's heels clicking sharply after him.

"Did you have a good weekend, Harry?" she asked, catching up.

"Quiet one." Harry turned the corner and pushed open a heavy oak door. "You?"

"Oh, yes." Romilda smirked again, and she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "I had a date." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Really?" Harry sidestepped a junior Auror on his knees, scrabbling at a pile of paperwork he'd just dropped. "That's fabulous."

"Yes, it was all right, I suppose, but--"

"Morning, Potter." A tall black witch stepped out in front of them. She handed Harry a mug of tea, still steaming, and smiled at Romilda--a tight twist of thin lips and sharp white teeth. "Vane, Shacklebolt's office. He's waiting for those files."

Romilda huffed and glared at her before tossing her perfectly coiffed head and heading down a narrow corridor of cubicle walls and stacked parchments. "Thank you, Angelina," Harry murmured, walking past her and hiding his grin in the mug.

She winked at him. "You owe me. And we missed you yesterday at the Burrow," she added, raising her voice as he hurried down the hallway. "Bollocksed up the entire match. I lost twenty Galleons to George. And don't tell me you had a date--I won't believe it."

Harry turned around, walking backwards and shrugged. "By now you ought to know better than to bet against your brother-in-law. And maybe I had an incredibly wild weekend, you bint."

"Yeah, if you actually said yes to the birds who asked for once." She laughed as he made an obscene gesture.

Another turn of a corner and into a twisting corridor. Harry glanced at his watch. Shit. Five after nine. Pucey would have his arse. Or at the least give him the caseload dregs for the week. With his luck he'd end up with Dung. Again.

"You're late."

Harry looked up as Ron fell into step with him, arms filled with paperwork. "Yeah."

Ron blew at the fringe tumbling into his eyes. "Merlin, I need a haircut. Kingsley's already snarled about it." "So get one." Harry took a sip of tea and checked his watch again.

"Hermione'd have a fit." Ron stopped in the middle of the hallway. "Listen, I couldn't get hold of you yesterday. Neither could Hermione." Harry looked back at him, still walking. "Ron, Christ. I'm late. I know we missed dinner, and I'm sorry, but Emma's tense about term starting again and after her two weeks with Gin--" Harry grimaced, thinking about the current tensions between his daughter and his ex-wife. "Frankly I just wasn't up to refereeing another argument between her and her mum--"

"They caught him this weekend, Harry." Ron cut him off, biting his lip and running a hand through his too-long hair. "Snape. Kingsley firecalled to tell me. He couldn't find you either."

Harry dropped his mug. Tea splashed across the hem of his robe and up the cream plaster wall as the heavy porcelain shattered on the stone floor. Ron shifted on his feet, pulled at his cuff.

"Where?" Harry asked, and his jaw tightened. He cast Reparo on the mug and picked it up. His hand barely shook. He tightened his fingers on the handle.

"Canada," Ron said quietly. "He'd been hiding there--"

"For sixteen years?" Harry's voice cracked and he tugged at his fringe, scowling. "Malfoy?"

"Says he's dead."

They stood in the hallway, looking at each other silently. Harry breathed out. "Christ."

"Yeah." Ron bobbed his head and stared down at the files in his arms.

Harry slumped against the wall. "Shit."

*************************

Severus was woken by a splash of cold water on his face. He sat up sputtering and shoved his now-wet, still lank hair back from his face.

The Auror outside the holding cell smirked at him. "Morning, Professor," he drawled. "Breakfast."

McLaggen, Severus recalled from the night before. Cormac McLaggen, Gryffindor, of course, and the one responsible for the boot-shaped pain in his left shin. He scowled. "Go to hell."

"Right. Thanks, but no. I reckon we'll see you there first. Fucking pillow-biter." McLaggen tossed the bowl of food on the floor. The eggs shifted, a thick, slick lurch of gelatinous yellow-white, and a greasy sausage rolled off onto the stones, coming to rest in a small pool of piss left by the cell's earlier occupant. Severus's lip curled and he turned his head.

McLaggen's laugh echoed down the stone corridor.

Severus waited until he heard the outer door click with a rattle of lock and keys before he reached for the bowl, frantically digging into the rancid slop, hating himself for his weakness.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, licking his fingers slowly.

He hesitated a moment, his head quirked to one side, listening. He always listened; he had learned that much in the past sixteen years. Listen and wait and watch, he'd told Draco. And they had--until they could no longer--and a shudder rippled through him.

He'd not think of that.

No.

A murmured incantation--simple, really, and beautiful as such things so often are--and Severus reached into the pocket of his trousers--the _truly_ hidden one, the one they were too damned idiotic to find, the foolish wretches--and he pulled out the thin moleskin journal, opening it to the next blank page. He traced his finger across the smooth parchment, whispering softly, and the words spiraled up to the surface once more.

His words.

A half smile twisted his thin mouth.

*************************

Criminal Defence Services was a legacy of Scrimgeour--a necessity after the war, when hundreds were tried and sent to Azkaban again and new laws required their defence before the Wizengamot. A small, dim labyrinth of tiny offices, tinier cubicles and wandering, narrow corridors tucked away in an area of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it was a place most would prefer to forget.

There wasn't a single window anywhere in the entire wing.

The barristers and solicitors wandering the halls were an odd, often combustible mix of jaded and idealistic, young and old, Slytherin and Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but the one trait they shared--besides overwhelming exhaustion--was the not-so-paranoid certainty that they were considered to be complete nutters by the remainder of the floor.

Harry hadn't even made it to his office before he heard Pucey shouting for him. His shoulders slumped. _Bloody fucking hell._

He tossed his satchel into his tiny, dark office and set the repaired mug on the tea caddy next to Terry Boot's door. Harry could see the stubble on the curve of Boot's jaw as he flipped a page in this morning's Prophet and he tensed. Christ. Could the man not shave?

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at it.

"He's in a mood," Boot hissed, from behind the newspaper. Snape scowled at him from the front page, face thin and gaunt and fingers tight on the Ministry identification plate held under his chin. There was a long streak of white on one side of his hair.

Still greasy, Harry noted.

"Isn't he always?" He hesitated at Boot's door, leaning up against the doorjamb casually. "What're they saying about Snape?"

Boot lowered the paper and sighed. "Just that Canadian Aurors found him in British Columbia. He was living as a Muggle, they said. Makes sense. And it's probably why they couldn't find him." He stared down at the photograph and Snape bared his teeth at him. Boot bared his back, then tossed the paper over to Harry. "Merlin, I hope Adrian doesn't give me his case. That's a no-win. Bad enough that the rat bastard's stuck me with Carlotta Pinkstone. Again." He shuddered. "How many bloody times can I try to convince that woman that lifting the ICW Statute of Secrecy is an entirely stupid idea?"

Harry stared down at the article. "Don't know," he muttered, scanning the page. The details were skimpy at best, but there were enough. Vancouver. A bookstore. Of course.

Malfoy--dead five years past. Harry's stomach twisted.

"Hey, meet up for a pint later?" Boot stretched back in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head, smiling up at Harry. Fucking stubble. Harry stared down at Snape's face instead. "You know, the one you keep having to miss? I could use some advice on Pinkstone."

Harry shifted on his feet. _Knock it off, Potter,_ he thought. _Don't even think what you're thinking. You can't afford to risk Emma's custody. You can't._

"Harry?" Boot peered up at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just--"

"Potter!" The shout made Harry flinch.

He tossed the paper back on Boot's desk. "Better run."

Adrian Pucey was as nasty a bastard now as he had been sitting a broom across the Quidditch pitch from Harry in school. Meetings with him were tense at best, and Harry expected this one to be even more so.

He sat in the chair across from Pucey gingerly. Ministry budget cuts had left the department to scrounge for leftover office furniture and there wasn't a chair in the entire wing that wasn't held together with a multitude of mending charms. Pucey was notoriously pants at them, and more than one barrister had ended up tumbling onto the floor. Harry suspected Pucey secretly enjoyed their humiliation. Today, however, the chair shivered beneath him, but held. Harry relaxed.

Until Pucey slammed a thick file on the desk between them and glared at Harry.

"Your next assignment," he snapped.

Harry eyed it warily. "And?"

Pucey scowled and drummed his fingers against his desk, irritated. Harry's heart sank. He recognised that look. Christ, he hoped the Pinkstone case hadn't been moved to him--

"You," Pucey spat out, "have been specifically requested to take over the Snape case."

Harry's mouth dropped open. Well. That hadn't been what he was expecting. At all. He blinked.

"I what?"

Pucey's face tightened. "You heard me."

"By whom?" Harry asked. He reached for the file slowly, opening it. Snape stared up at him again from his mug shot--a smaller version this time, but those dark eyes were just as jarring.

"Snape."

Harry looked up in surprise. "Excuse me?" Pucey leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "He's rejected private defence, despite the fact that Narcissa Malfoy has offered her solicitors." Pucey eyed Harry speculatively. "He told Moody that it was you or no one. And as legally he now requires a barrister to defend him..."

"What if I say no?" Harry flipped the photograph over. It was unnerving him.

"Potter," Pucey said, and his eyes were almost pitying. "You won't."

**************************

There were so damned many reasons why this wasn't a good idea. Harry knew this as he followed Tonks down the hallway, and she was listing them all as they walked along.

"--and if you want to talk about conflict of interest, Harry," Tonks said, turning a corner and reaching for the keys at her waist, "it's not as if you didn't witness the primary crime he'll be charged with."

"I know," Harry said weakly. He watched as she fit three keys into the large iron lock, twisting them in a complex pattern, then tapping each with her wand. The bolt slid open with a creak. "But he requested me. So I reckon I'll just have to tell him how bloody mad this is."

"It's beyond mad," she said with a sigh, and pulled the door open for him. "Third cell on your left. Wotcher, Professor," she shouted, her voice echoing off the lichen-covered stones. "Make yourself decent, will you?"

Snape was standing when they reached his cell, arms crossed, and still dressed in Muggle clothes--rumpled white shirt dirty and stained now, and black trousers that even Harry could tell were well tailored and expensive. "Thank you ever so for the warning, Nymphadora," he said dryly, and his eyes flicked over to Harry only briefly.

The voice still caught him after all these years and Harry tensed, waiting for the usual snide slur. It didn't come, Snape barely seemed to notice his presence, and Harry felt oddly discontent.

Tonks grinned at Snape. "Just my usual. Can't tell you how many times I've stumbled across somebody having a wank." She conjured a chair and a table for Harry outside the barred cell, ignoring Snape's tight mouth and flushed cheeks.

Harry watched him quizzically, setting his file down on the small table.

"You've twenty minutes to start with," Tonks said, touching Harry's shoulder. "I'll come back when time's up."

And then she was gone and Harry was left alone with Snape for the first time in sixteen years.

He was thinner. Older. There was a touch of grey in his hair that hadn't been visible in the Prophet photo or the mug shot and, of course, that long white streak that hung to his shoulders.

His bones protruded a bit, sharp against his sallow skin, and his nose was as hooked and ugly as it ever was, but there was something about him that Harry admitted was intriguing, and he felt his cheeks burn at that thought because for God's sake, this was _Snape_, after all.

Christ. He needed to get laid.

He rubbed his damp palms against his robe. "Vancouver?" he asked finally, and he hated the thin strain of his voice.

Snape snorted in what Harry thought might actually be amusement. If the man was capable of that. "Why not?"

"Bet Malfoy hated it," Harry said, nearly under his breath as he opened his file, but Snape tensed, rocking forward on the balls of his feet and he grabbed the bars of the cell tightly, rattling them.

"You won't mention him," he hissed softly, and his eyes burned into Harry's.

Harry flinched but held his gaze. One of those subjects then. He was used to them with his clients. And really, it explained a lot, now didn't it? "Right then. Well, why me?"

Snape's fingers twisted around the bars, and his smile was tight and thin. "Because, Mr Potter, you still owe me a life debt."

Christ. Harry stilled, dropping the papers back into the file. It shivered and slammed closed. "I reckon we've been square on that for a while," he said evenly.

Snape's eyes slid up to the scar on Harry's forehead and he raised an eyebrow. "I think not." His eyes met Harry's, dark and inscrutable.

_Screaming, and there was blood everywhere and that damned laugh again and those eyes and he tried so hard to get the horcrux, but it was just out of reach and he knew that was the last one--he'd been told; there'd been an owl, but no one had believed him--and those serpentine fingers were reaching for him, closing around his throat, and then there was a burst of red light from the shadows just enough to knock those hands back and the shouts and the slap of boots against stone and there, he had it--_

Harry jerked back, breathing hard, and his heart pounded painfully against his chest. "Don't do that again," he snarled, pressing his hand to his forehead. It ached, a quick throb beneath his fingers...

"A life-debt," Snape said, and his eyes were still on Harry.

"You didn't--" Harry started, but he looked away. Did it matter? He sighed. "I saw what you did that night on the tower. You know that. But you want me to defend you anyway?"

Snape tilted his head to one side. "Fitting, would you not say? An end to the myriad life-debts twisting between your family and myself? The final payment."

"So I save your life and you took his. Just like you let my Mum and Dad's be taken. Life-debts." Harry's laugh was bitter. "That's just--" He ran a hand through his hair, not caring if it all stood up. "You know, you should speak to Narcissa Malfoy. Her solicitors would probably do a hell of a lot better job attempting to save your pathetic life."

Snape hesitated for a moment. When he spoke his voice was tight, barely audible. "No, Mr Potter. I rather think you mistake me." His jaw clenched and he swallowed hard. His knuckles were a pale white against the black iron bars.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What then?"

Snape's eyes didn't waver from Harry's. "I don't want you to save my life," he said quietly. "I want your defence to help me end it."

*****************************

"He wasn't serious, Dad." Emma poked a wooden spoon into the pot boiling on the stove and wrinkled her nose before covering it again quickly as her father entered the kitchen. She tossed the latest copy of Witch Weekly on the counter.

Harry opened a beer, draining a third of it in one swallow. "He was. Had most of it all planned out, exactly the way he wanted me to defend him."

"That'll bollocks up your career," his daughter said with a frown, blowing out a stream of bluebell bubbles from Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. She set the spoon in the sink and wiped her hands on her apron. Ginny's old apron, Harry realised. She must have nicked it the weeks she spent with her mum this holiday.

Emma plopped down across from him and reached for his bottle. He watched in amusement as she took a swig, then handed it back, wiping her hand across her mouth to hide her grimace. Fifteen and desperate to prove it. He remembered being fifteen. He'd seen his godfather killed at fifteen--

Harry took another quick drink and looked away. "Not the way he has it planned out. It's not as if it's likely he'd have won anyway. He just wants the Kiss instead of Azkaban." He set his bottle on the table and scraped a thumb across the edge of the label. "I don't reckon I blame him for that."

Emma didn't say anything for a moment and then she sighed and leaned her chin into her fist. "So you're going to. Doesn't it bother you?"

"Some." Harry brushed his daughter's hair back out of her eyes, then touched her cheek. She looked a bit like her mum at that moment, despite the mousy brown hair tumbling into her face, and his heart wrenched. Things had been so different with Ginny once. He had been different, he supposed. He dropped his hand, curling his fingers around his beer again. "But it's not as if he didn't do what they say he did, love."

"It's mad, giving up like that."

"It's his choice," Harry said and his fingernail tore the label on his bottle.

Emma just shrugged at that, an eloquent jerk of her shoulders, and when she jumped up with a muffled _bloody fuck_ to stop the pot from boiling over, Harry couldn't help but wonder if maybe what she wasn't saying might not be right.

***********************

They made no attempt to be gentle with him. He didn't expect they would.

Severus had been waiting for them, had known that it'd only be a matter of time before one of them cracked. His wager had been on that fool McLaggen.

He had been correct. He always was about Gryffindors.

He twisted on the floor of his cell, shaking from the curses thrown at him by the three Aurors standing over him, and he could barely hear their shouts. There was no pain--there never was; he knew how to retreat from that, here into the quiet of his mind. He'd learned that much during the war. His body may falter, tremble, but here he was safe. For the moment.

They would leave eventually, and he would slip back into his body and it would hurt then, but not as much, and this too would be just another scar.

Perhaps if he were fortunate, they might actually kill him.

Merlin knew it would spare the Ministry quite an exorbitant amount of money.

And then there was a shout--a woman's voice, harsh and loud, and he opened his eyes to see a pair of heeled navy boots trimmed with Fwooper feathers dash past him.

A flash of pink hair and a burst of light and she was shouting again, slamming McLaggen back against the wall and Severus nearly laughed at the incongruity of it.

There were other boots then, he could see them through the blood and the bars of the cell. Heavy boots, this time, and the flap of navy Auror robes, and the three were against the wall.

Her hand was on his forehead and he could hear her whisper, "Professor?" He nodded, and he was back in his body and it ached--Merlin, he hurt--and he touched his hidden pocket and the book shifted against his fingers--thank God, they hadn't found it--and then Severus clutched his stomach, rolling over just in time to vomit blood and bile over the toes of Nymphadora's neatly polished boots.

*********************

Emma hesitated in the doorway of her father's study. He was asleep in the chair, and in the light from the lamp hovering above his file-strewn desk, his face was drawn and shadowed and far too thin.

He had a lot on his mind, she knew. Things hadn't been easy for him for years, and he tried to keep that from her, but she wasn't stupid. She knew he was lonely. That's why he worked so much--except when she was home for hols and then he tried to hide it, but she heard what Aunt Hermione and Tonks whispered about when they thought she wasn't listening. How he never went out, and even when they arranged dates for him, he never owled the woman again. And she knew the shite he got for his choices. Even from Uncle Ron sometimes and he wasn't doing it to be mean. He just didn't understand. Not completely.

She understood. Probably she was the only one, she thought. Merlin knew Mum never had. Mum didn't understand either of them, really. She tried, and Emma knew that, but she didn't. She and Dad--they were different.

He stirred then and she stepped into the room with a sigh. He needed to sleep, not go rushing after those stupid prats he worked with.

"Dad?" she asked, almost hoping he'd not answer.

He blinked up at her and rubbed his eyes behind his smudged glasses. "Hey, love," he said softly. And then she shifted into the light and he sat up, suddenly tense and alert. "What is it?"

Emma bit her lip. "You've a Floo call downstairs. It's Tonks. Something about your Professor Snape."

"Shit," Harry said and he was out of the chair and brushing past her without another word and Emma sighed and slumped against the doorjamb.

She pretended not to notice the small, empty potion phial sitting next to his bottle of whisky and the saucer filled with cigarette butts.

There were things they didn't talk about.

Dad liked to think he had his secrets. She let him pretend he did.

******************************

"How badly is he hurt?" Harry snapped out as he turned the corner down the Auror-secured hallway. A mediwitch, her arms filled with charts and a stack of fresh linens levitating behind her, jumped out of his way with a soft screech. The linens dropped, scattering across the polished white planks of the floor. Kingsley Shacklebolt matched Harry's quick stride, and his mouth was tight when he answered.

"Contusions and cuts, mostly. A possible concussion. Aftereffects of the hexes. Mostly minor injuries, but they could have been worse if Tonks hadn't come by to check on him."

Harry swore. "The Aurors?"

"All locked up. Definitely to be reprimanded at the very least. Moody's considering sacking the lot of them."

"Considering?" Harry stopped at that, just outside the door of Snape's ward as he gave Kingsley an incredulous look. "They attacked my client without provocation--or at least without adequate provocation considering who the damn bastard is--and Moody's _considering_ sacking the lot of them?"

Kingsley put a hand on his arm and looked at him evenly. "McLaggen, Kirke, and Coote all lost family during the war, Potter. I'm not saying what they did was right, and I'm definitely not saying they won't be punished but there are two sides--"

"I know exactly what you're saying." Harry jerked away. "Look, Snape's not safe there any longer and you know it as well as I. I won't have him killed before his trial, and it's looking more possible by the second." He opened his satchel and shoved a scroll at Kingsley. "Sign it."

Kingsley took the parchment. His eyes narrowed as he unrolled it. "Where'd you get this?"

"Tonks." Harry held out a self-inking quill. "She checked in the codebooks. There's nothing that says I can't take custody of the prisoner myself."

"You've lost your mind, Potter," Kingsley growled. He waved the scroll angrily towards Snape's door. "That man in there is a known, admitted criminal and you want to take him into your home with your _daughter_ there for holidays?"

"She's off to King's Cross in two days and he's obviously not safe with your department," Harry said calmly. "And I have a responsibility to him. He won't hurt my daughter or myself." He hesitated for the briefest moment, then lifted his chin and thrust the quill towards Kingsley again. "I trust him."

"You're mad." Kingsley grabbed the quill, nearly crushing it in his fingers. "What about security?"

"Oh, come on." Harry rolled his eyes. "With all the damned wards the Order insists on keeping up around my house? You know as well as I do that that it's the safest place in Britain."

"You'll set Fidelius on your house." Kingsley scowled and scrawled his name at the bottom of the parchment. "I'm going on record as saying this is a ridiculous idea," he said, handing the scroll back to Harry. "And that you had better have Tonks and Weasley privatise your wards immediately. No one gets in or out of that house save you and your daughter and your Secret-Keeper. Understood?"

Harry nodded. "Understood."

He squared his shoulders and pushed the ward door open.

*****************************

A whoosh of the Floo and Severus was deposited in the middle of Harry Potter's entrance hall, along with the ridiculously antique satchel the Ministry had provided for his few belongings.

He stumbled to his feet, only listing slightly, although his hip ached still, and looked around the hall. It was neat enough. Old, and once expensive, that much he could tell from the worn oak paneling and the wide curving staircase. The carpet down the middle of the stairs was threadbare though, and in need of a good beating, and the umbrella rack at the door held not only umbrellas but two Firebolts and an upside-down pair of muddy Wellingtons.

There was a slightly grimy stained glass fanlight over the door--a lion, of course, he noted with a snort, but there was also a serpent coiled next to it, oddly enough, and the deep reds and greens and blues of the filtered light pooled onto the worn, polished oak floor.

The sound of a Muggle guitar and synthesizer echoed loudly through the house, a bizarre, discordant flash back to his youth and summer nights wasted wandering Old Compton Street in Soho with his uncle. Severus blinked. Yet again unexpected of Potter. He seemed far more the Weird Sisters aficionado than The Who.

"This is an entirely ridiculous idea," he rasped, his voice still rough and his throat raw.

Nymphadora sighed and brushed the soot from her robes and hair. "You're not the only one who thinks that." She took a step towards the stairs. "Emma," she shouted over the clash of drum and cymbal.

The music stopped, and bare feet pounded down the upstairs hallway.

Severus took a step back, his breath drawing in sharply and a chill seeping into his bones as Lily Evans's spectre took the steps two at a time.

She stopped in front of him, and she looked at him solemnly, and it was only then he breathed again when he saw the stringy hair twisted limply at the nape of her neck. Brown. Not red. Of course. Potter. Not Evans.

Severus straightened his shoulders and glared at her, crossing his arms over his thin chest.

She grinned at him.

Impudent chit.

"Where's your dad?" Nymphadora asked, and the girl shrugged, still watching Severus.

"Had to go into the office for a bit, thanks to Putrid Pucey. He said he'd be back and for you to wait until he got home. I'm to see the Professor upstairs to his room."

She reached for Severus's bag then, and he drew back with another glare at the brat and a quick flash of bare teeth, moving the battered leather case behind him.

"Suit yourself then," she said calmly and turned. "Reckon you both ought to follow me. Dad set up the guest room."

Severus hesitated, then, without looking at Nymphadora, followed the girl up the stairs.

***************************

"Are you certain you don't want me to stay?" Tonks stood at the door, the light from the streetlamp outside combining with the misting rain to shimmer a fuzzy pink-gold halo in her hair.

"We're fine," Harry said quietly, and he kissed her cheek. "Thanks for staying until I got home."

"That's what Secret-Keepers do. And I've already warned him off my goddaughter." She smiled at him. "If you need me--"

"I know."

Tonks nodded and she stepped out onto the puddled lawn. The rain fell around her, outlining her black cloak, still bone dry. "I'll be back tomorrow," she said warningly.

Harry laughed softly. "I know. Go. We're fine, I promise."

He waited for the crack of her Apparation, and then he shut the door again, and warded it.

A glance up the dark stairs and he sighed. Might as well.

He knocked on Snape's door, and he wasn't certain why. It's not as if the man deserved his privacy. Perhaps it was just that he would want the same regard. That thought made him uncomfortable.

Still, he waited for Snape's quiet grunt before pushing the door open.

The room was small--it'd been Emma's nursery years past before she had outgrown it with her records and her clothes and her shelves upon shelves of books. The wallpaper was still a dark green--a child's garden of tropical flowers swaying in a silent breeze and monkeys swinging from tree branches and elephants peering from lush clumps of thick foliage. A cobra even slithered through the grass, a mongoose on her tail. Emma had called them Nagaina and Riki-tiki.

Her favourite bedtime stories had been Kipling.

Harry ran a hand over the rocking giraffe still in the corner, and it moved beneath his fingers, creaking lightly. The cheval glass across the room was turned to face the wall, its wooden back dark in the shadows.

Snape was sitting in the windowseat, a book in his lap, and Harry nearly laughed at the ludicrousness of Severus Snape sitting in a child's room like this. His daughter's room.

"You turned the mirror," Harry said, curious. The mirror harrumphed softly and tilted in its frame.

"I'm not fond of mirrors." Snape scowled up at him and Harry's shoulders tightened, hunching the way they had so many years ago when his potions master had curled his lip at him in that particular manner.

"Not surprising," Harry said sharply, thinking of the rumors about Snape when he was in school, and he flushed at Snape's small smirk as he set his book aside. " I thought we should discuss a few ground rules."

"Such as--" Snape tilted his head to one side.

"Leave Emma alone while she's here," Harry's fingers twisted in the yarn mane of the rocking horse. It neighed softly, butting its walnut head against his fingers. "Term starts the day after next, so she won't be a bother to you for long."

Snape shrugged. "I have no desire to interact at all with the brat. And?"

"You've this room and the bath and the kitchen. That's it. Everything else is off limits."

Snape picked his book back up. "Agreed." He looked over at Harry. "And this room is mine and is off limits to you without my express permission."

Harry snorted. "This is my house."

Snape turned a page in his book. Harry sighed. "Fine. I'll knock. I did knock." He hesitated. "Look, I'm going down to my study."

"Then go." Snape curled back against the rain-streaked window.

"At some point we need to talk about your defence."

Snape didn't look up, but Harry saw his shoulders slump. "Later, Potter," he said wearily, and Harry couldn't argue. It would wait another day.

Snape shifted, as Harry reached for the doorknob, and set the book down, reaching for another, thinner volume tucked in his robe, and the gilt lettering on the spine of the discarded book shone in the light from the hearth.

_The Jungle Book._

Harry smiled faintly, and the door clicked closed behind him.

*********************

What looked to be porridge was bubbling on the stove, and the girl was crouched at a half-open door when Severus entered the kitchen, Kipling in hand. Rain still tapped at the windows, streaming down in thin rivulets that blurred the garden into a Renoiresque burst of greens and reds and yellows against grey stone and grey rain and grey sky.

She looked up at him with a scowl and hissed as he opened his mouth--and Severus blinked. The brat put her finger to her lips and turned back to the door, pushing it open just a bit more. A kneazle slid through the widened crack, a long sleek curl of calico fur, and Severus raised an eyebrow as the girl pushed it away, tucking her hair behind her ear as she leaned closer to the open door.

"--damn it, Ginny," Severus heard Potter snap, and curious, he peered past the peeling white paint of the doorjamb. Potter was hunched next to a small hearth in a narrow room lined with boxes marked _kitchen_ and _study_ and _Emma's--don't touch or I'll Furnunculus you_. An elf's quarters, Severus realised. Obviously unused, although there was a small bed in the corner, neatly made, a knitted tea cosy hanging over one bedpost.

Ginevra Weasley's face floated in the fire, her red hair twisting in the green flames.

"I won't have her there with him," Weasley said, her jaw tight. "He's a murderer, Harry--"

"It's one day, Gin." Potter slammed his hand against the bricks of the hearth. "One day and I'm here and nothing will happen to her."

"Send her to Mum's--"

"Your Mum's got all five of the twins's there." Potter sighed. "Look, you know how she is. If I send her off, she'll--"

"Fine, then I'm coming back to get her."

The girl breathed in sharply and she twisted her fingers in her hair, pulling a limp lock of it to her mouth as she rocked forward on the balls of her feet.

"Ginny," Potter said, tired, "just don't--"

"Stop it," Weasley snapped. "This is why we're not still together, you know. You never stop to listen to anyone else. I've never known anyone so bloody stubborn--"

"I thought we weren't still together because you'd rather shag a Quidditch player," Potter said tightly, and his fists clenched in the folds of his robe.

"I'd not have needed to shag anyone if you'd been around, now would I? Don't you dare blame all of that on me, you fucking bastard. Just don't even dare or I'll have to bring up Percy and you--my own brother--"

There was another soft sound from the girl, and Severus looked over at her as Weasley's voice rose. He flinched at her twisted mouth and the dullness in her eyes. An image of himself crouched at a door much like this one flashed into his mind and he could still hear those raised voices.

Severus pulled the brat back, his fingers tight on her shoulder, and pushed her towards the table. "Sit," he said sharply as he shut the door on Potter's argument, not bothering to hide the click of the latch.

He dropped the Kipling on the table in front of her. "Rubbish," he said, turning towards the cupboards. Two opened doors and he found the bowls. Plastic and Muggle and pale green and nearly identical to the ones in the summer cottage on Lake Okanagan--he jerked away from that train of thought.

"It's not rubbish," the girl said, but her voice was thick and she swallowed audibly. Severus scowled into the pot of porridge. It was far too thick, but he spooned it into the bowls nevertheless and set them on the table.

He sat down across from the brat. "Entirely ridiculous rubbish, and if necessary I will explain in great detail exactly how idiotic Mr Kipling's ideas on the supposed savages of India were."

Picking up her spoon, she smiled faintly at him. "I like Riki-tiki-tavi."

Severus snorted. "You would, of course." He stirred his own porridge. "The serpent killer."

She watched him for a moment with that same small smile, and he found it unnerving. "Actually," she said after a moment, "I always wanted Nagaina to win. I rather like cobras, but Dad won't let me have one. He says people'd talk."

"Indeed." Severus's spoon clinked against the plastic bowl. The porridge was nearly inedible. "And why would that be?"

She grinned and tossed her hair and then hissed at him--a stream of sibilance that twisted around his spine, chilling him. He had only heard two others speak that particular tongue in his life.

Severus's hand shook and he slid it into his lap, his fingers twisting in his robe. "I see," he said at last. "And am I to take it you intend to be the next Dark Lord?"

"Maybe." She propped her chin on her hand and studied him with those damned eyes that were so very bloody like her grandmother's. Severus looked away. "Isn't that what everyone expects from Slytherin House?"

Severus blinked. The brat was suddenly far more interesting than he expected. "It does have a certain history," he said dryly. After a moment, he added, "Emma."

A wide grin spread over Emma's face. "They still talk about you, you know. In the common room."

Potter threw open the door, his mouth tight and eyes dark. "Snape," he snapped. "My study now. We're starting your defence."

He didn't wait for a response before striding out of the kitchen. Severus shoved his chair back, annoyed.

"Damned idiot wretch."

He ignored Emma's quiet snigger, as the door slammed shut behind him.

She was a Slytherin after all.

One of his.

They would always still be his.

He didn't notice the thin moleskin journal that slipped out of his pocket, landing with a quiet thud on the kitchen floor.

*******************************

Potter had changed in sixteen years.

He was still as damned annoying as he had been as a teenager, but he was more focused, Severus was willing to admit. Determined.

Both traits made him a far more devious opponent in an argument.

"It's the only way," Potter said, running his hand through his hair. It stood up wildly before Potter smoothed it back down. He stood at the window, looking out over the rain-soaked garden.

"You are not going into my memories," Severus said flatly.

Potter looked at him then, and Severus recognised the stubborn tilt of his jaw. Another remnant of Lily--

"I'm trained," Potter said, and that odd moment of déjà vu was shaken. "I'm not brilliant at it, but I'm good enough--"

"No."

Silence. Severus let his gaze wander over the walls of Potter's study. One wall was filled with shelves of the solemn black bindings--the Wizarding Code, of course. Bizarre to think of Potter, of all people, owning those. Another wall contained photographs--faces he recognised, despite sixteen years aging, and ones he didn't, although the bright red hair of most was a giveaway to their heritage.

"I don't know how I'm to even make a pretence of defending you," Potter said quietly, "if you won't help."

"I'm quite certain you'll find a way, Mr Potter."

They glared at each other and it was almost as if they were standing back in his office, bitter and angry and loathing each other for crimes real and imagined.

"All I know," Potter said finally, "is what your files say. What the Prophet says. Rita Skeeter has more bloody information on you than I do. You ran to Canada with Malfoy just after the war ended. He died eleven years later, the Canadians say, cursed to death, but you won't even tell me how that happened. Or why."

Severus looked away, and he took a shaky breath. Five years and it still hurt. Five damned lonely years.

Potter continued on, his eyes fixed on Severus. "They think it's you, you realise. That you might have killed him like you did Dumbledore. And now I'm to defend you, and I don't know how. Give me something, Snape."

The silence stretched out. The rain tapped against the leaded, diamond-pane window and Severus stared into the wet, filtered grey sunlight.

"I didn't kill him," he said, his voice flat. He wrapped his arms around his chest. It was oddly chilly in the small room and he wondered how Potter could tolerate it in his shirtsleeves.

"What happened?"

The gentle touch on his arm infuriated Severus and he jerked away. "That, Potter," he snapped, "is none of your damned business."

He slammed the study door behind him.

*****************************

She'd done the washing up, and even made certain that her robes were pressed and ready, hanging over her trunk in Dobby's old room--and going in there was getting easier now, she'd found. Maybe it was because she was older. Or maybe it'd just stopped smelling like Dobby's room and looking like Dobby's room and--her fingers brushed the tea cosy and Emma blinked.

She walked back into the kitchen and hesitated. It was still raining outside, so there wasn't any use in going into the garden, and Dad was in his study with the professor--she could hear their shouts all the way down here. She sighed. She'd read all her books, although maybe she should just go up to her room anyway. She could listen to music and think about Douglas McLaggen and the way he sat a broom even if he was a bloody Gryffindor--and then she saw it lying there on the floor.

She picked the journal up and sat back down at the table, curious, as she flipped open the first few pages. They were filled with a tiny, cramped handwriting that she could barely decipher, and she almost thought the words were shimmering and twisting in front of her until she blinked and they solidified. _Draco_ she could make out, and _Albus_\--that was Dad's old Headmaster, she was certain. She turned another page and there was a drawing, a rough, inked sketch of a lake, with mountains in the distance and a wide tree spreading its branches, and she couldn't help herself, although in retrospect she told herself she was a right Charlie about it.

Her fingertip skimmed the lines of the sketch and the waves of the lake rippled at her touch.

She blinked.

And leaned closer.

Shimmering beneath the thick strokes of black ink was water. Clear and blue and she could see the sunlight on each of the waves.

The kitchen door slammed open and Emma jumped as Snape stalked in with Harry on his heels.

"--damn it, Snape,' Harry said tightly

"What are you doing?" Snape barked at Emma. "Don't touch that--that was a gift--"

"I'm sorry," Emma said, eyes wide as her father pulled the journal from her hand and looked down at it. "It was there and I--the lake--"

"Give it here, you damned wretch." Snape reached for the journal angrily, pulling at it, and Harry's hand slid into the parchment. He gasped and lurched forward.

"Dad!" Emma pushed her chair back.

Their eyes met, her father's wide and frantic.

"Fuck," he said, and then he was gone and the journal fell to the table, its pages fluttering.

**********************************

Harry was sinking in the water; it was cold and dark and he could see the faint pink light shimmering high above him on the rippling surface. He was trying to swim, but it was so bloody far and his lungs hurt--

The light was blocked by a dark, sinuous shadow and he blinked hard against the water.

Something brushed his leg, thick and smooth, and he kicked out, pushing his fringe back out of his eyes and trying to press up higher in the water, seeking the sun again.

It grabbed him then, curling around his waist, and he beat his hands against the blue-black scales, panicked. He wouldn't die. He wouldn't. Not like this. Not when Emma needed him--he'd faced a Dark Lord, goddamn it--he wouldn't die like this.

Harry kicked hard again, catching the heel of his foot against a coil of thick muscle, and he turned his head as a blunt snout butted against his shoulder.

A serpent. A sea serpent. It looked at him, eyes dark and unblinking in the gloom, and then it pulled him up, up through the water. He gasped and choked as he broke the surface and the coils loosened from around his waist, sliding over his skin.

He barely noticed the hands on him, pulling him into the rowboat as he coughed, retching water and bile and the remnants of porridge into the stern.

The hands were there again, smoothing over his temple as he finally raised his head, shaking.

The woman was older than him, maybe by ten or fifteen years, he'd guess. Black hair, twisted back into a messy chignon, and blacker eyes, and not pretty in the least. Worn and tired-looking and her nose was hooked and sharp. She handed him his glasses, summoned from the lake.

Harry slid them on and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What was that?" he croaked out finally. His throat ached and rivulets of cold water slid down his neck.

"Ogopogo," the woman said simply, and she tapped the side of the rowboat with her wand. It sped back towards the shore, skimming the waters of the lake, and Harry rocked back, the wooden edge of the bench digging into his spine.

"He lives in the lake," the woman added, unnecessarily in Harry's opinion, as the serpent's habitat seemed fairly obvious to him. He coughed again, spitting out more lake water.

"Where am I?" Harry asked. "And who are you?"

The woman watched him for a long moment and then she smiled faintly. "Perhaps I should be the one asking that. Not many enter in such a dramatic manner."

"I'm Harry Potter." Harry looked out over the lake. There were mountains in the distance. Misty. Purplish in the dusk, and he could almost think that he saw rough black ink outlines over their ridges. He shivered. It was chilly and his shirt and trousers were clammy against his skin. "I think I fell into someone's diary. Again." He laughed sharply and pushed his hair out his eyes. "I seem to have a bad habit of doing that."

The boat bumped the shore and the woman stepped out, pulling her overrobe up above the ankle-deep waves. Harry followed her, splashing up to the narrow strip of sand. "So who are you?" he asked again. "You have to have a name."

The woman paused at the edge of the tall grass, looking at Harry with dark eyes. "You may call me Eileen," she said after a moment.

Harry just looked at her. The nose...the eyes. He could almost hear Hermione's voice echoing in his head from those days after Dumbledore's death. _Eileen Prince married a man called Tobias Snape..._ "Prince," he said slowly. "Eileen Prince."

"Yes," she said, calmly. "I once was. But of course you knew that. This is Severus's journal, after all."

"You were captain of the gobstones team." Harry shook his head. Odd how the strangest things stuck with you after the years. He could barely remember Dumbledore's funeral, but he could still see clearly that Prophet clipping Hermione had thrust in front of his face. He looked around the lakeshore, then glanced up at the sky. "I have to get out of here."

"You can't," Eileen said curtly. "You're here now, however you managed it."

"No." Harry stopped on the sand, water squishing out of his shoes and a strand of lake grass wrapped around his ankle. "That's entirely ridiculous."

"Perhaps." Eileen pulled her robe tighter around her thin frame. "It's not safe here at night. Don't dawdle."

She turned and started towards the dark line of trees. "Don't bother trying to Apparate," she said over her shoulder. "It doesn't work here. Magic is different."

"Bloody fuck," Harry murmured, but he followed.

***********************

Emma breathed out slowly, staring at the fluttering pages of the journal. "Where'd he go?"

"Where do you think?" Snape snapped, picking up the book. He flipped through the pages before thrusting it at Emma.

The sketch in the middle of the page now showed two tiny figures in a small rowboat on the lake, leaning towards each other as if talking. Emma peered at it squinting at the inked lines. The man looked like--

"Dad," she whispered. "How'd he get in there?"

Snape pulled the book back and touched the scrawl of words above the mountaintops. "That," he said quietly, "I do not know."

"Well, get him out," Emma snapped. She bit her lip. _Dad, Dad, Dad,_ her mind screamed. _Please don't let him be hurt. Please. God, if you're really there and listening, I'll do anything. Please. I just want him back._

Snape bared his teeth at her. "Floo Nymphadora and tell her to bring her wretched arse over here immediately. I'd rather Potter spend the least amount of time possible traipsing around in my memories."

Emma ran for Dobby's Floo.

************************

The cottage was small, but dark and cosy and Harry sat at the corner table which Eileen had pointed him to silently as if he were a recalcitrant five-year-old. He flexed his wrinkled, pruny toes, grateful that he'd finally gotten out of his squishy-wet trainers. His drying charms had always been pants.

There were books everywhere--on the shelves lining the walls and piled next to the large, worn leather chairs in front of the hearth. A few pictures were scattered across the mantel. The ebony-framed mirror above them was turned to the wall, oddly. Harry frowned and wondered if the dislike of mirrors was genetic.

He could see the last glimmer of sunset on the lake through the narrow paned windows and then Eileen closed the shutters, latching them tightly and warding them.

She had discarded her overrobe, and Harry watched her curiously. Her shoes were a style that Ginny would have laughed at and Mrs Weasley would have approved of as sensible, and her brown wool dress was neat and trim and ended right below her knees and reminded him vaguely of Princess Anne. He didn't think that was a compliment.

Eileen set the fire in the hearth burning. "Is that a Floo?" Harry asked.

"No," Eileen said sharply and she slid her wand into her pocket. "There aren't many Floos around here."

"Where is here?" Harry asked, as Eileen brushed past him and went into the kitchen. The woman was more damned close-mouthed than Snape. "You've yet to tell me."

"British Columbia," Eileen said, opening the cupboard. She took out tinned soup and bread, setting them on the counter. "Of sorts."

"Canada?" Harry turned to look into the kitchen. "How the fuck did I get to Canada?"

"Watch your language." Eileen opened the soup and poured it into two pale green plastic bowls, then, with a wave of her wand, set both bubbling. She levitated the bowls to the table, the soup splashing only slightly as they thudded against the scarred wood. She set the bread on the table alongside a chunk of butter in a cracked blue willow saucer and handed Harry a spoon as she slid into her chair. "And I said it was British Columbia of sorts."

"Which means?"

Eileen sighed. "It's a memory of Canada. That's all any of us are. Memories." She broke off a piece of bread and buttered it. "A wasteland of what used to be," she said bitterly. "You get used to it. Eat."

Harry dragged his spoon through the watery soup.

*****************************

"Stupid, bloody, idiotic, bastard Gryffindor." Severus set the quill down on Potter's desk next to the half-empty glass of whisky--Ogden's cack, of course, God _forbid_ that Potter have a decent bottle of Macallan about--and he stared at the scrap of parchment filled with everything he knew about the charms on the journal.

Thirty-eight years he'd had the damned thing and his mother sixteen before that and he still had no idea what the actual purpose of the damned thing was, though he had managed to unravel a few of the spells and wards woven into the parchment.

He'd been compelled to write in it throughout his life, from the moment his father had thrown it and his mother's wand at him an hour past her funeral, telling him he wanted none of her rubbish about any longer. None of her books, none of her magic, and particularly none of her son.

Severus had been only to happy to oblige, and that memory had been the first he'd added to his mother's pages. There weren't many--the pages lasted a few days and then disappeared, replaced by new ones, but he'd never been concerned about their absence. He could call an entry to the surface just by thinking of it.

He stared down at the page in front of him. He'd never considered entering it, however. He'd never even known--he snorted. Trust Potter to stumble across that particular magical glitch. Typical.

The Floo in the entrance hall flared to life and he could hear the girl's feet heading to meet Nymphadora. He had only a few moments if he was to do this. Once Nymphadora learned what happened she'd never allow him to go, and it was entirely likely that Potter would either get himself trapped in the pages of Severus's memories or, more likely, killed by them.

Another life lost for which he would be responsible.

Severus scowled. Damn Potter to hell and beyond.

He drained his whisky and set the glass down with a thump. He could hear Nymphadora calling for him. It was time.

He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and pressed his hand into the page.

And fell.

****************************

Harry studied the pictures on the mantel. Snape and Malfoy. Together, obviously, and they both looked happy. Relaxed. Content. Malfoy arched an eyebrow at him in one photograph and turned to whisper something in Snape's ear before kissing him. Snape smirked.

"They were happy," Harry said. He felt a twist of jealousy. He'd been happy once, but it'd been fleeting. Then the arguments had started and the tensions and he'd tried to make things right, but it never seemed to work. He'd tried so hard and wanted so badly and here Snape, of all people--a murderer and a Death Eater--had had that happiness. With Malfoy. His mouth thinned.

Eileen looked up from her book. "Yes." She set it aside and stood up, joining Harry in front of the hearth. "I believe so." She ran her finger along one of the picture frames, smiling. "His memories here are, at least. That's why I chose to stay here."

"You chose to?" Harry blinked at her

"I can travel through the memory spaces," Eileen admitted, staring at a photograph of her son. "It's impractical as I never know where I might end up. There's very little control. I left Lancashire and found myself here. I've left a few times since, but I seem to return to this spot." She looked at Harry then. "It calls you to where you might be happiest. You'll come to be grateful for it soon enough."

"I'm not a memory, you know" Harry said. "An hour ago I was arguing with Snape."

Eileen's hand shook as she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "Is he well?"

"Not particularly." Harry sat on the hearth, pulling his knees up to his chest. "He's trying to get himself Kissed by the Dementors instead of going to Azkaban and he won't let me save him."

"You're trying?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm his barrister. I have to. He's a damn fool, though."

"He always was," Eileen said quietly and looked away quickly but not before Harry saw the bright shine in her eyes. "They found him then. He hadn't written that. I thought they might be close."

"Yes." Harry watched her. "You know what he's written? In that journal."

Eileen smiled faintly. "Some of us do. The ones who knew him best." She sighed. "Loved him best." She looked back at Harry and her mouth tightened. "He can't let them do that to him. He can't live without a soul. I won't let him," she snapped.

"I'm trying." He hesitated then continued on in a rush. "Help me get back. Maybe he'll listen to his mum, right?"

There was a moment's silence, and then Eileen laughed, a sharp, short bark of bitter amusement muffled against her palm. "He never did before," she said, and she brushed the back of her hand against her eye. "Stupid, stupid boy. I ought to have throttled him."

Harry smiled faintly. "I think that sometimes about my daughter."

Eileen looked at him, curious, and Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin wallet, flipping it open to a photograph of himself and Emma Ron had taken on their fishing holiday in Rhône-Alpes earlier that summer. "Her name's Emma," he said. "She's fifteen." Emma laughed in the photograph and bumped shoulders with Harry before sliding her arm around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder.

Eileen took the wallet from him, staring down at the picture. "She's lovely," she murmured.

"I want to get home," Harry said, watching Eileen closely. "To her."

Eileen looked up at him and sighed. "You haven't a home any more." She stood up and touched Harry's head gently, fingers slipping through his thick dark hair. "I'm so very sorry."

********************

Severus dragged himself through the shallows, coughing as the water and weeds dragged at his robe. He fell onto the shore and breathed hard, fingers spreading over the wet white sand.

He was too damned old for this---having the shite beaten out of him one day and two days after falling Merlin only knew how many feet into a bloody lake. He rolled onto his back and peered up into the darkness.

He knew this stretch of lakeshore. He turned his head. The mountains. Yes. Which meant---

Severus crawled to his knees, only clutching his ribs once. He could see the gleam of light through the trees from the cottage windows, barely visible through the cracks of the shutters.

Lake Okanagan.

He stumbled to his feet.

*******************

"What the hell was he thinking?" Tonks shouted, as she slammed the parchment back against the desk. The bottle of whisky tipped and Emma barely caught it in time. She set it back on her father's liquor shelf, capping it tightly.

"Is it such a bad thing?" she asked, looking back at her godmother. "I mean, someone had to go after Dad, right?"

Tonks pulled at her hair and scowled. It went from pink to turquoise. "It's completely against procedures. He's a _prisoner._ Christ, when Kingsley finds out, he'll have my arse on a platter and he should! Your dad's God only knows where, and do _not_ even start me off on how he manages to get himself tangled up in this sort of muck; why can't he ever have something normal happen to him, like splinching or a nice simple cursed teapot? And now Snape's poncing about after him--"

She broke off with a groan. "Get your cloak. We'll have to go to the Ministry."

Emma nodded and bit her lip as she twisted a lock of hair around her fingertip. This was all her fault, she knew. Somehow. Never trust anything that thinks for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain, Grandad always said.

She just wished she'd known the journal had thoughts of its own.

******************

Severus opened the cottage door, slowly, his wand drawn. He could hear voices raised, arguing, and he tensed, his fingers tightening around his wand hilt. The carved ebony dug into his skin.

"You can't say that," Potter shouted and Severus rolled his eyes. Could the brat avoid annoying every person he met?

He pushed the door wider and stepped in. " Potter, you are an utter imbecile. You do realise that poking at a magical journal is possibly one of the stupider things you might have done, particularly given your past history."

It was almost worth it to see Potter's startled face. "Snape, what the hell are you--how did you---"

Potter moved aside and Severus froze.

Thirty-eight years and she looked the same. The clothes and the hair and the small smile she had always had only for him. It had been the two of them for so long and when she had gone, he had been so angry with her. He still was. She'd left him and how dare she leave him with that bastard when she knew--how _dare_ she not let him stop him--how _dare_ she?

The anger and the grief welled up in him and he clenched his fists tightly into his robe. "The dead are dead," he said, his voice harsh, and he looked at Potter, standing there, his eyes wide behind those damned glasses, then past him to the photographs on the mantel and the flash of blond hair in the firelight. His stomach lurched. The dead are dead are dead are dead.

"Severin," Eileen said quietly, her nickname for him so very many years ago and no one else had ever used that but her, and then she was there with her arms around him.

And he broke.

"Mother," he whispered and he could do nothing but press his face into her hair as he had done as a child.

******************

Harry had left them alone for an hour or so--he'd lost track of time out here in the dark and besides, his watch was cocked up as near as he could tell despite his attempts to reset it and had moved a grand total of nine minutes since he'd fallen into the lake. Half eleven it said.

Bloody water.

The moonlight glimmered across the rippling waves and Harry stared glumly out over them, pulling his knees up to his chest. He could feel the tension twisting in him again, his muscles tight and knotted under his skin and he closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his knees.

He had to get home. Had to. He had responsibilities. He had Emma. His heart twisted. He'd fought so damned hard for her, for the brief amount of time they could spend together and Ginny had only given in when Emma began fighting her as well and together they were too much.

Harry sighed and leaned back against the step. He wasn't a fool. He'd been responsible for turning his daughter against her mother; he knew that. But Ginny'd been so angry with him after Percy and she still was. She might have thrown him over for a Quidditch player, but Harry'd thrown her over for a tumble with her own brother. A bad tumble at that. Not that he had anything else to compare it to. Or would until Emma turned seventeen. Ginny'd made certain of that in the terms of their custody agreement.

And he'd signed without hesitation. Emma was more important.

Now he might have lost her.

His jaw tight, Harry tapped a cigarette into his hand--he'd found a Muggle pack stashed away in a drawer, the red and silver paper crinkled, and he'd admit to a curiosity about whom they'd belonged to---and he pulled the small blue phial from his trouser pockets, opening it easily with one hand. He dipped the filtered end of the cigarette in, then pulled it out, letting the clear liquid drip back off into the phial before corking it back and sliding it into his pocket.

A touch of his wand to the tip of the fag and he breathed in slowly before exhaling a thin grey stream of smoke, that had been intended to be a circle. Yet another thing he was pants at, he thought with a sigh. The familiar numbness from the potion tingled his bottom lip, and he relaxed slowly, inhaling again.

The cottage door creaked open and Harry felt the porch shake under Snape's booted tread, then creak as he sat down on the step above him. He held the pack of cigarettes up over his shoulder and Snape took one with a grunt.

One question answered, Harry thought.

"A light, you damned twat, unless you've forgotten the Ministry has custody of my wand, which shouldn't surprise me given the inability of your mind to hold the slightest intelligent thought past five minutes," Snape said, but he sounded more tired than snappish, and Harry turned without argument and sparked his wand against the cigarette.

Snape inhaled and blew out a perfect smoke circle.

Bastard, Harry thought as he settled back against the step. "Your Mum all right?"

"Shut up, Potter," Snape said, and another smoke ring drifted past Harry's shoulder.

Harry was silent a moment, then he turned on the step, leaning back against the weathered slats of the railing. He studied Snape. The man was tired and still gaunt looking. Far too pale. And it was still strange to see him without his robe, the sleeves of his white Muggle shirt rolled up to his elbows. But Harry liked it. He wasn't certain why, but he did.

"I am not a specimen to be scrutinised." Snape scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumbnail, then took another drag on his cigarette, leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he stared out over the lake.

"How often did you come here?" Harry asked quietly. "You and Malfoy. I saw the photographs."

Snape didn't answer for a moment and Harry was certain he wouldn't, and then Snape tapped the ash of the end of his cigarette and sighed. "For a few weeks every fall," he said, not looking at Harry. "Draco preferred it when the brats weren't running free, mucking up the place."

Harry smiled faintly. "That sounds like him." He looked around. "It's nice."

Snape grunted.

There was another long silence.

"We never took many holidays," Harry said finally. "When Gin and I were together. There wasn't time, really, with both of us working and Emma."

"I suppose there were quite a few Slytherin scoundrels to defend after the war," Snape said, curling his lips. "How very noble of you."

" I didn't at first." Harry tapped his cigarette against the step. Ash floated off into the darkness, drifting on the slight breeze. " I was an Auror for five years. Hated it."

Snape looked at him then and raised an eyebrow.

"I liked the fieldwork, when I was out with Ron," Harry admitted. "But they were talking about putting me as assistant head of the department and I wasn't even twenty-seven."

"Most wizards would be delighted at that."

"Most, yeah." Harry took another drag and then dropped his cigarette on the step below him and crushed it out with his foot, leaving a black streak on the sole of his trainers. "Ginny thought I was mad."

"Perhaps Miss Weasley was correct." Snape eyed him. "Now you are forced to defend the dregs of wizarding society."

"Ron calls them the nastier boils on the arse of wizarding society, actually," Harry said with a laugh. "And then Hermione goes off into one of her tirades about wizarding rights and the history of the British legal system and the necessity of all wizards having equal opportunity to proper legal defence."

He thought he saw a smile flicker over Snape's face, or he might have imagined it.

"More fool she," Snape murmured. "Although she always was an idiot crusader for the supposed downtrodden. Typical Gryffindor. Ignoring the truly pathetic masses for a more acceptable cause."

"Yeah," Harry said after a moment. "Maybe."

Snape blew out a stream of smoke. "I assume your wife left you after you did not live up to her expectations."

Harry shrugged. "That was part of it." He hesitated and pulled his knees back up to his chest. It was quiet and it was dark and the potion was pounding through his blood. "I just want to go home right now. I miss my daughter."

Snape sighed. "It may be possible." "How?" Harry looked up at him in surprise. "Your Mum says--"

"Yes, well, she has admitted there are methods of transport in this world which can possibly carry one from portion to portion," Snape said.

"She says they're not reliable."

"Reliability means nothing in research, Potter," Snape snapped. "Use your brain for once. If one can move within the confines of this journal, then possibly one can make his way out. It is merely a matter of finding the appropriate exit."

"And you think we can?" Harry asked, leaning forward eagerly. It was just a single tendril of hope, but hope nevertheless.

Snape dropped his cigarette on the step and crushed it out. "I intend to try. On one condition."

"What?"

"When you leave, I stay." Snape looked at Harry then, meeting his gaze directly. His eyes were distant. "I don't want to go back."

Harry hesitated. "You mean to find him, don't you?"

Snape didn't answer, but instead stood up and dusted off his trousers. "I would strongly suggest you attempt to sleep tonight."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry stared out over the lake.

The shadow of a serpentine tail splashed through the dark water, sending droplets shimmering through the air.

******************************

"What sort of charms?" Kingsley asked Tonks, and Emma could barely keep up with them as they hurried down the Minsitry corridor. They were in the bowels of the MLE, far past both her father's office and Auror headquarters. The walls here were stark white and the floors were polished oak and the witches and wizards striding through the hallways were focused and serious.

"Similar to Pensieve charms, or so Snape said," Tonks replied, sidestepping a wizard levitating what looked like an antique filing cabinet behind him. "Maybe a few memory charms as well. He thought there were wards on it, but with Harry falling through..."

An interoffice memo zipped past Emma's shoulder and into a tube on the wall, its wings beating against the rippled glass as it zoomed up a floor.

Kingsley nodded. "And no one else knows of this?"

"No," Tonks said, lowering her voice. "I haven't even told the Weasleys yet."

"Then don't." Kingsley stopped in front of a lift marked Private. He looked at Emma. "You ever met an Unspeakable?"

She shook her head and clutched Snape's journal tighter in her fist. Merlin. She was only fifteen. Did he really think she might have?

Kingsley smiled at her, in what Emma thought he might mean to be reassuring. It wasn't. He pressed his hand to a small black marble panel.

"You're about to."

The mirrored lift doors opened.

******************************

The mirror gleamed in the soft light of Eileen's Lumos, reflecting the shadowed faces of the two men as Eileen stepped back and brushed the dust off her palms.

Harry frowned. "I still don't understand how we get anywhere through that."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't." His mother scowled at him and he shrugged. "Potter never has been capable of understanding the intricacies of magical theory."

"Shut up, Snape," Harry snapped.

"There's a difference between power and knowledge, Potter. Any infant can have the former."

"Oh, and you know exactly how we're going to use a bloody mirror as transport do you?" Harry glared at Snape.

He shrugged again. "I would assume it works much as a Portkey might. That would be an educated guess."

"Stop," Eileen said sharply, and they fell silent. She motioned for them to come closer and Harry bit back a laugh as she smacked her son's arm.

And then he looked into the mirror and breathed in sharply. It was cloudy and grey, barely reflecting them now, and he could see figures moving in the swirling mist. He almost thought he could see Emma's face, and Tonks' before they slid back into the greyness. A tremble of fear slid down his spine and he didn't pull away when Eileen's hand curled around his.

"Take his other hand, Severus," she said. "And for the love of God both of you do shut up and hold on. I've no intention of backtracking to find you."

Harry caught his breath when Snape's fingers slid around his wrist, cool and rough. He didn't look over; he stared into the twisting grey clouds inside the mirror frame.

Eileen closed her eyes and took a shaky breath, and then slammed her fist into the mirror.

There was a jerk--almost as if a Portkey had been activated, and Harry lurched forward into a chill grey mist.

And then it was dark and he could barely see. The shadows were still there along the edges of his vision and Harry thought perhaps they were whispering at him. He shivered and twisted his wrist in Snape's fingers. He could feel the edge of Snape's cuff and he grasped it in his fingertips.

"Walk," he heard Eileen say sharply, though he couldn't see her, and she pulled at his hand. Harry could see a shimmering oval of light ahead of them. His feet were heavy though, sinking into the soft ground beneath him and he stumbled through the remnants of the mist, pulling Snape behind him.

The bog ended and his wet trainers slid on smooth wooden planks. He gasped and Eileen's fingernails dug into his wrist.

"Walk," she said again, tightly this time, an urgent tone to her command, but a quiet sob caught Harry and he jerked back.

_He saw him then, in the darkness, curled at the half-open door, his black hair tumbling into his face. He was little, not even old enough for Hogwarts, and his mouth was pressed to his knee and his cheeks were wet. _

"Bitch," a man screamed from the other side of the door, and there was the sharp crack of skin against skin and a woman's cry. "Fucking whore--" Another slap, then the awful wet crunch of bone and cartilage.

The boy leapt up and pushed open the door. "Stop it!" he shouted, and there was a man, tall and hook-nosed, his mouth twisted in anger as he slammed his fist against a dark-haired woman's cheek. Her nose was bleeding, thick, crimson drops that splattered against her brown wool dress.

 

"Don't touch her," the boy screamed, and he threw himself in front of her just as the man's fist came swinging down, catching the boy across the ear and sending him flying backwards. His head cracked sharply against the doorjamb and he slumped to the floor.

"Severus--" The woman jumped up, blood streaming down her face, and the man grabbed her arm, jerking her backwards as she kicked and hit, her fingers clawing at his face.

A trickle of blood slid into the boy's eye.

Harry took a step towards the boy before Snape's hand pulled him back.

"Don't, you stupid Gryffindor," Snape said, his voice a flat, dull echo in the darkness, but his fingers dug tightly into Harry's wrist. "It's just a memory. Walk."

The shouts were already fading into the mist. Harry took a shaky step forward, following the tug of Eileen's hand.

When he glanced back, there was only darkness.

***********************

The room was long, almost as long as hallway and it was lined with cabinets and cupboards that squeaked and burbled and roared as they walked past.

Emma drew up against Tonks before she caught herself and jerked away, straightening her shoulders. People could smell fear if you allowed them, she knew full well from her experiences in the common room, and they were eager to take advantage of that weakness.

There was one desk tucked away in the far corner, battered and scarred, with three thick books serving as one leg, and an elderly man sat on a stool behind it, hunched over a stack of parchments. He didn't bother to look up as they approached but he tapped his quill sharply against the desk and another stack of parchment, piled against the one chair in the office, swirled about and formed a wall in front of him, almost too high for Emma to see over.

"Croaker," Kingsley said, exasperated and the elderly man peered over the rims of his spectacles.

"One cannot be too cautious, Auror Shacklebolt," he said. He eyed Emma suspiciously. "While I'm acquainted with your foolishness, I'm afraid I don't know your young companions."

"Auror Nymphadora Tonks." Tonks scowled over the wall of paper. "And this is Emma Potter."

"I've never held with women being Aurors." Croaker raised a bushy eyebrow. "And I suppose I am to assume this is the Boy Who Lived's brat?"

"And we've come to see you about him," Emma said, raising up on her tiptoes. She held up the diary. "Please."

Croaker hesitated, then nodded curtly. Another tap of his quill and a fragment of the parchment wall slid aside to allow Emma entrance. "The girl only," he snapped when Kingsley began to step through, and the parchment slid back into place.

"Are you mad?" Tonks tried to push through the parchment. It held steady. Emma heard her kick the wall. "The man's a loon!"

"Croaker, let the wards down now," Kingsley snapped. "Stop toying with the girl."

Croaker grinned at him, a sharp, feral twist of thin lips and grey teeth. "Merely toying with you, Auror Shacklebolt." His eyes narrowed. "If the girl wants my help, she'll ask for it while you two cool your heels." Another flick of his quill and another stack of parchment flew over to heighten the wall. "And privacy, if you please."

He smiled at the muffled shouts from behind the parchment and looked over at Emma. "I do so loathe Aurors. Beastly lot." His brows drew together. "Well, then spit it out, brat."

Emma hesitated and then laid the journal on the desk. "My dad's in there. With Professor Snape."

"Severus Snape?" Croaker asked, surprised.

She nodded.

Croaker motioned her towards the now empty chair. "Sit. I rather think you've a tale to tell." He pulled a fresh scrap of parchment from a drawer and looked at her, his quill hovering over the blank sheet. "Begin."

A single drop of black ink fell from his quill tip onto the creamy white parchment.

****************************

Rain struck the warm pavement in heavy round drops, slowly at first, darkening the grey cement pavers. Severus's foot caught on the frame of the mirror and he fell against the wet side of the black Mercedes. He glared at his mother, standing beneath a storefront awning.

"Bit of a tight squeeze," he snarled, but her bright laugh stoppered his growing irritation. It had been nearly four decades since he'd heard that sound.

She smiled at him, and her eyes crinkled in that way he remembered. "I told you there wasn't any controlling where you'd come out."

"This isn't London," Potter said from the kerb. He was looking about, blinking from behind rain-spotted glasses.

Severus stopped, ignoring the rain dampening his hair. The street was familiar. Too familiar. He turned, pulling his robe off and draping it over his arm as he strode up the tree-lined pavement past shops flying brightly striped flags and a boisterous café filled mostly with men. If he wasn't mistaken...

He stopped at the corner of Davie and Thurlow, shaking.

"Severus?" His mother's hand was on his elbow. Potter was just behind her; he could hear the slap of the fool's trainers on the wet pavers.

"West End," he choked out. "Vancouver." He took a breath and pointed towards the west, up Thurlow Street. "This way."

The followed him across the street and down three blocks. He could see glimpses of the water through the trees, could hear the waves faintly over the city traffic.

And then Severus stopped. The house was small by Draco's standards, which had always amused him greatly as the damned thing was three storeys--four if you counted his attic workroom. An Edwardian cottage, clapboard and covered with ivy, and with a back garden they'd both tended, cultivating the plants most useful in potions brewing. The Muggles had thought it merely quaintly English. Idiots.

They had bought the house, worn and run down, and spent their first year in exile cleaning and charming and converting the first storey into a bookstore---their most practical livelihood without magic, Draco had pointed out. Books were books and at least Muggle tomes didn't bite, curse, hex or charm one.

Severus had rather missed the hexing volumes.

The house had been their home together for ten years, then his for five, alone and silent. The Canadian Aurors had found him here, mere days ago, drunk in his study.

And here he was again.

His heart beat against his chest and he barely noticed his mother and Potter following him up the narrow walkway. The bookstore door was open, as was usual this time of day, though the shop itself was quiet and empty.

"Draco?" he murmured, looking about. There was no answer.

He pushed open the door leading to the upstairs, and he took the steps two at a time until he was in the entrance hall, then the kitchen, then the sitting room and the study.

"Draco," he shouted, taking the second staircase to the bedrooms.

They were empty.

He sank down onto the steps and pressed his forehead to his knees. Foolish, foolish, foolish hope.

Foolish.

************

A hand on his arm kept Harry from the stairs. "Leave him be," Eileen said, and Harry turned back. He didn't even know why he was concerned about the man. Christ. They hated each other. They always had. But Snape was his best hope at getting home, if nothing else, he told himself, knowing that wasn't anywhere near the truth of the matter.

"This is his house, isn't it?" Harry asked. At Eileen's nod, Harry scowled. "You knew we'd come here."

"I thought perhaps," she began and Harry cut her off.

"How could you? You know he wants to find him and he's not here, is he?" Harry stared at her in disgust, understanding dawning. "Christ, you knew that too. I think you know a hell of a lot more about how this all works than you're letting on."

Eileen's fingernails dug into his elbow. "What I know is that what Severus thinks he wants to find may not be what he truly wishes for," she said quietly. "And the magic knows that. Leave him be, Harry. Whatever Severus has to do here, he will."

"And me?" Harry pulled away and stared into his reflection in the glass of a grandfather clock. He almost thought he saw a tendril of mist fog the glass for a moment before disappearing.

"I don't know."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it hard. "I want my daughter," he said softly.

The bell on the door jangled then and a man entered. He nodded to them both, gazing curiously at Eileen's robe. He shoved his hands in his pockets and he coughed, a soft bark that echoed in the quiet shop. Harry raised his eyebrow.

"Do you need help?" he asked, and he had an urge to laugh at the thought of Draco Malfoy of all people asking something like that. Impossible. He probably demanded what the hell they wanted of him. And Merlin only knew what Snape would say--

"Get out!"

Snape stormed into the shop, his face twisted in anger and a newspaper clenched tight in his fist. Harry drew back against the heavy walnut counter.

The man blinked. "I was just going to ask--"

"I do not give a damn what you are going to attempt to ask for, about or to," Snape hissed, looming over the man and Harry was suddenly reminded of Neville Longbottom as the man's eyes widened. Snape slammed the paper against the man's chest. "I said, get out before I throw your damned ignorant arse out of my house, you wretched excuse for cellular function. Get. Out."

"Severus," Eileen said softly, but the man was scampering for the door. It clanged shut behind him and Snape clicked the four locks shut before turning around.

"Was that really entirely necessary?" Eileen asked, scowling at her son.

"Yes." Severus slapped the paper on the counter and glared back at her.

Harry looked down at the front page of the Vancouver Sun. _U.S. Confirms: Troops Will Complete Withdrawal From Iraq By End Of Year_ was emblazoned beneath the masthead in thick black type; to the right was a photograph of formal gardens next to a smaller headline: _King Charles Visits Buchart Gardens. "Looks Like Disneyland For Flowers," He Sneers. _

He picked up the newspaper in shock. "June 23, 2012?"

"Yesterday's," Snape said grimly. "We kept--" He faltered, then continued, voice tight. "We kept them for two days--the previous day's paper in the kitchen and today's--" He walked around the side of the counter and crouched down. Another paper slammed onto the countertop. "Here."

Harry unfolded it. "Addition of California brings to twelve number of American states permitting gay marriage," he read aloud.

"Seven years after the entire country of Canada," Snape muttered under his breath, scanning the previous day's paper, Eileen peering over his shoulder. He gave her a baleful look; she merely raised an eyebrow.

Harry blinked. "How do you know that?"

"To begin with, you cretin, I lived here." Snape turned a page in the paper. "Also, I should think I ought know the bloody year I married." He slammed the paper down onto the countertop again and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. "Damn it. I do not need to be in 2012. I need to be earlier." He started towards the back of the shop.

"Wait a bloody minute," Harry said, ignoring Eileen's warning look. "Married? You were married? To Malfoy?"

Snape had stopped in front of a small mirror hanging between a set of heavy, polished walnut bookcases. "No, Potter, I married the bloody Princess Consort. What do you think?" He stared at his reflection, reaching out to touch the smooth silvered glass.

Harry hesitated. "I just never considered you to be the type. You know. To marry."

"What you _think_ you know of me," Snape snapped, still looking into the mirror, "is highly unlikely to be anywhere near the truth."

"Yeah. Finding that out."

Snape turned back to his mother, still standing across the shop. "How do I do it? How do I get in there?"

Eileen crossed her arms over her chest. "You have to want to, Severus. You know that as well as I. Intent is two-thirds--"

"--of magic, yes, yes," Snape said. He turned back to the mirror, face pale and drawn.

"Are you certain you should be doing this?" Harry asked. He reached for Snape's wrist, but Snape jerked away, just as he lunged forward, slamming his other hand into the mirror. The glass twisted in its frame, spiraling in on itself in a mass of cloudy grey, and with a sharp pop, Snape was gone.

"Bloody hell," Harry shouted. "And he calls _me_ a reckless fool?"

"Go," Eileen said, wearily, and she was at Harry's shoulder, pushing him towards the mirror. "Find him."

Harry didn't hesitate.

***********************************

_The River Calder had been one of his favourite places to escape to during the summer weeks when he was forced to leave the comfort and safety of Scotland. It curved through town, shadowed nearly black under the smoke-stained mill chimneys, and rippled brightly through the locks and the dams as it curled its way into the Lancashire countryside. _

He had a spot that he went to nearly every day during holidays, a wide flat rock that jutted out into the river, almost large enough to stretch out on with a book in the warm sunshine, his bare feet dangling in the cold water. An old oak spread its branches out over the rock and its roots--as gnarled and stained as Grandfather Prince's fingers--curled and twisted along the shallow embankment.

It was quiet, save for the quiet rush of whitecapped water over stones and toes, and free from the shouts and screams that seemed always to echo through the house at Spinner's End.

He hated that damned house. He always had. He hated him the most though.

 

He turned the page in his book--a copy of Moste Potente Potions he had nicked from Grandfather's library the last time he had been forced to visit at Easter--and a shadow fell across the a detailed description of Entrail-Erupment Potion.

His mother sat next to him, tucking her skirt beneath her knees. Her dark hair fell forward, over her bruised cheekbone and he glared at her as only a disgruntled twelve-year-old could.

"You shouldn't let him do that to you."

Eileen sighed. "Severus--"

"He's a Muggle," he snapped, sitting up. The pages of his book fluttered in the breeze. "And you're a Prince! Why don't you stop him? Curse him? Do something?"

"It's not that simple," his mother said sharply.

 

"It is. If you want it to be."

Eileen pulled her knees to her chest and slid closer to him. She nudged her bare toes against his hip. "Don't be angry, Severus."

He looked back at her, mouth tight. "Someday I'm going to be able to do magic properly, and then I'll--"

"Goddamn, it, Snape, where the hell are you?" Potter's voice echoed in the grey-black darkness and Severus flinched. Couldn't the brat stay put?

He turned towards the small square of light ahead.

*********************

Harry swore as he stumbled through the mirror, the silvered glass stretching around him just before he popped through. He landed on his hands and knees, banging his shin sharply against the corner edge of a cabinet as he fell.

A black robe swept in front of his face and Harry looked up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck," he murmured.

"Indeed, Mr Potter," said Lucius Malfoy, just before bringing the heavy silver head of his cane down against Harry's temple.

*********************

Emma pulled at the hole in the knee of her jeans, widening the frayed white gap, her mind racing as Croaker turned the pages of the journal slowly, grunting every so often. Her stomach rumbled--it was nearly two after all, and at Croaker's scowl she shrugged shifting in the uncomfortable chair. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise for foolish matters, brat." Croaker snorted and studied her and she thought his face might have softened for the briefest moment, as he set the journal aside and slid off his dragonhide gloves. "The charms will be difficult to break." He rummaged in his desk drawer before pulling out a large square of dragonhide. He wrapped it around the journal and fastened it with an Expand-Tight Band.

"But you can." Emma sat up, sliding her leg off the chair arm.

"Perhaps." Croaker stood up and handed the wrapped journal back to her as he gathered his notes and slid into his overrobe. "We shall see."

A flick of his quill and the parchment wall dropped.

"About time," Shacklebolt said calmly, leaning against a cabinet. Croaker stomped past him.

Tonks scrambled up from the floor. "Are you all right?" she asked Emma, mouth tight as she glared at Croaker.

Emma nodded. "I'm fine. Mr Croaker thinks he might break the charms."

"Might, I must say, being the operative word," Croaker added. He began pulling books at random from the shelves and thrusting them at the other three. "Shacklebolt, I'll need a Foe-Glass, three sets of dragonhide gloves--" He scowled at them over the rim of his spectacles. "Most foolish of the three of you to be handling an unknown magical item of this sort without proper protection. I should have thought that'd be standard procedure in cases such as this, or at least it would have been in my day as an Auror."

Tonks flushed and looked away, cradling her stack of books to her chest.

"An hourglass," Croaker continued, adding books to Shacklebot's pile, "a Sneakascope, a bottle of invisibility ink, a Revealer, a Pensieve, and, oh, yes, Cornish pasties and some rice pudding."

"Pasties and pudding?" Shacklebolt asked, dryly.

"I have no intention of listening to the child's stomach for the remainder of the afternoon," Croaker said with a scowl. "Now. Auror Tonks, I understand you to be Potter's Secret-Keeper?"

Emma gave her exasperated godmother a weak smile.

************************************

"This is not a good thing," Harry said, looking around the stone walls of the dungeon cell. He pressed his hand to one, pushing hard. It didn't budge. "Isn't this supposed to be a bloody memory?"

Snape sat across the cell, knees at his chest, watching Harry dourly. "Sit down, Potter, before you cause me to strangle you out of sheer annoyance."

"Shut up, you." Harry glared at him, then winced. His damn head still ached, and the blood from the cut over his temple was caked in his hair and congealing on his neck. "If you hadn't decided to go throwing yourself in a mirror willy-nilly, we'd not be in this mess. I thought Slytherins were supposed to be the cunning, careful ones."

"At times." Snape leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "Just shut up, you damned fool, and let me think."

With a thump Harry slid down to the floor. "We're never going to get out of here."

"What part of _shut up, you damned fool_ is so incomprehensible?" Snape asked, eyes still closed.

Harry made a rude gesture and rested his head against the wall, gingerly. "Christ. I would kill for a good whisky."

"Potter," Snape growled. "If you do not stop giving me gyp--"

They sat in silence for a moment. Harry fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the small blue glass phial, opening it quietly and wetting his fingertip with the potion. He capped the phial and slid it back in his pocket, sucking on his finger.

His shoulders relaxed and he breathed out slowly, letting the warmth seep through him. So good.

"What did you do to get Malfoy so narked?" Harry asked finally. "I thought you'd be rather friendly with him."

"Oh, for the love of--" Snape sighed and opened his eyes. "Slytherins are not Gryffindors, imbecile. We are not _friendly_ with each other."

"You seemed friendly enough during the war."

"I seemed quite a number of things." Snape rubbed his temple.

"Which doesn't explain why he threw you in here," Harry pointed out. "I thought you were the Death Eaters' hero."

"You would be sorely mistaken. Lucius in particular was not happy that a half-blood had upstaged a Malfoy. Again."

Harry hesitated, but only for a moment. "Why did you do it?" he asked, watching Snape.

Snape didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because I was asked," he said quietly. He looked away, staring into the shadowed corner of the room. The stones were damp there, water seeping through the mortar from the earth behind them.

"For Malfoy then," Harry said, and his throat tightened. The rage bubbled up inside of him--the anger from so many years past when he'd stood there, hidden on that tower and watched Snape lift his wand-- "You killed him for Malfoy. What? Were you already buggering his arse, you fucking sick--"

Snape slammed Harry into the wall and his head cracked sharply against the rough stone. Pain exploded behind Harry's eyes and he groaned and grabbed Snape's shoulder to keep from falling face-first onto the filthy floor.

"Do not even suggest that, Potter, or I will be forced to rip your entrails from your gut and stuff them down your gullet," Snape snarled, thumb pressed hard against Harry's oesophagus, nearly cutting off his breath. Drops of spittle hit Harry's cheek and Harry flinched as Snape shook him again, knocking his head back against the wall. "You know _nothing."_

And then Snape pulled away at the sound of shuffling footsteps down the corridor and Harry fell back against the wall, breathing hard and clutching his throat.

He could almost hear Emma's snort. _You're trapped in a cell with an admitted murderer, Dad. Maybe antagonising him isn't the smartest thing._ He rubbed his throat gingerly. Yeah. Maybe not.

A narrow slot near the bottom of the door creaked open and Harry caught a glimpse of wide brown eyes and floppy ears "Master is saying for Tessy to bring the Professor Snape this," the elf whispered as she pushed a bowl of porridge through. Snape caught it before it fell to the floor. The slot slammed closed again.

Snape thrust the bowl at Harry. "I'm not hungry."

"What, no roast beef?" Harry muttered, staring down into the grey gloop.

"Just eat." Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed

Harry swirled the silver spoon through the porridge--leave it to a Malofy to have silver even for the prisoners--then licked it. It wasn't bad. Better than what he and Emma managed to cook up, that was certain. And then he stopped, spoon still in his mouth.

He pulled it away, slowly, staring into it. "Snape, come here for a moment."

"What?"

Harry held out the spoon. Light shone off its surface and they were both reflected inside the curved oval. A tendril of grey mist drifted across their upside-down faces. "Do you think?" Harry asked quietly.

"Perhaps." Snape stared at the spoon. "It's a mirror of sorts and it's a mad enough idea to work."

Harry nodded. "Right then. Hold on."

Snape grabbed his shoulder. "Turn it about, Potter; you don't want us to--"

His words were cut off when Harry pressed his fingers into the gleaming bowl of the spoon.

The stone walls turned black and the world twisted upside down.

Harry caught his glasses just before they slid off his nose. Not that he could see a damn thing in the darkness, but he reckoned he'd need them later.

"You stupid, imbecilic pillock." Snape dug his fingers into Harry's arm. "I told you to turn it around."

Harry's trousers slid up his shins. "Oh, shut it," he mumbled, taking a step forward. His hair swung beneath his head. "Christ, I just hope we don't end up some place else where you've _really_ slagged someone off."

"Walk," Snape snarled. Harry could feel the brush of Snape's breath against the nape of his neck. His skin prickled warmly even as the cool grey mist curled around his exposed calves.

_"Linus!"_

The bustle on Old Compton Street was easy to get lost in on a Friday evening, and the boy had to sidestep several groups of oddly dressed Muggles to catch up to the hook-nosed older man who was just as strangely garbed, his black hair spiked and shaved and a thin strip of leather wrapped around his neck. He handed the boy his cigarette, and the boy inhaled, puffing out a pitiful, half-formed circle before passing it back.

"Getting better," Linus said with a laugh, before taking a drag and exhaling a round smoke ring.

The boy tugged nervously at his Union Jack t-shirt, smoothing it down over his stomach, obviously uncomfortable in the Muggle clothes. He was lanky and long and his dirty black hair fell limply in his eyes. "Father'll have a fit if he finds out you've brought me here."

Linus dropped the cigarette onto the pavement and ground it out with his heel. "What my damned brother doesn't know won't hurt you--or me," he added. "So keep your gob shut."

 

"There you both are." A tall man with green streaks in his blond hair draped his arm around Linus's shoulders, pulling him back for a quick kiss. He grinned at Severus. "You ready?"

"I suppose." He pushed his hair back behind one ear and wrapped his arms around his chest.

"Just don't tell anyone you're only fifteen," his uncle warned, pushing open the door to the club.

"I'm not a complete imbecile, you realise," Severus snapped.

 

The blond winked at him from over his uncle's shoulder. "They rather like twinks here." He flinched. "Hit me again, you fucking cunt and I'll--"

He was drowned out by the thrumming, loud strains of Baba O'Riley and Severus paused at the sight of three hundred Muggles dancing--if that's what the press of body against body could actually be called.

"Bloody Muggles," he muttered under his breath.

Only a moment's hesitation, and then he straightened his shoulders, his mouth twisting into a bored sneer as he wiped his palms against his jeans and stepped into the melee.

Harry fell into a bookshelf, nearly knocking it over before hands caught him. He blinked into the sudden light.

"You're bleeding," Eileen said, and Harry touched his temple.

"Oh." He let her push him into a chair. "I'm fine." He blinked. "We're back?"

"Obviously. Do you ever listen, Potter?" Snape pushed Harry's hair back, scowling down at him. Harry resisted the urge to jerk away, his mind still reeling from the thought of a fifteen-year-old Snape in a Muggle gay club. Snape. Gay. Club. Muggles.

"Look, we made it out," Harry snapped. He winced as Eileen pressed a wet rag to the cut. She shushed him and dabbed at the torn skin gently. "At least we know it's not just mirrors."

"True." Snape stared into the reflection of the grandfather clock across the shop. "It appears that any reflective surface can function as a transport. Interesting." He turned to his mother. "How long were we gone?"

"Two or three minutes," she said. "He's going to need salve."

"There's a jar in the kitchen," Snape said, distracted, as he reached for a notebook tucked behind the counter. "I'll be in my workroom."

Eileen rolled her eyes and looked back at Harry. "Do you think you can walk?"

"I'm fine. Really," Harry protested.

"Salve," Eileen said, in a tone that broked no argument. "Now."

Harry stood up slowly.

*******************************

Blood splattered across the wall and Harry groaned. He could see them and hear them begging him to help them and he knew they were in pain, but he couldn't stop it. He could never stop it--not for Neville or for Padma or for Seamus or Cho or Cedric or Dumbledore--

 

_There was so much blood. _

He couldn't stop the blood. Flowing, streaming, pouring down his body. His blood. Their blood.

And then Emma was there, reaching for him and he touched her face with bloody hands, staining her pale skin with streaks of crimson, and she screamed, jerking away, her eyes wide in horror and Harry looked into the mirror. Red eyes gleamed back at him and a thin, cruel mouth smiled and Harry knew this was who he was, who he had always been.

He had killed them all.

Harry woke up with a gasp, shaking. The dream again. He closed his eyes, then opened them again quickly, terrified of the images that might come back.

After sixteen years, you'd think the dream would change, he thought, rolling over to the side of the bed and fumbling for his jeans. He jerked them on, fingers catching in the buttons. Emma had aged over the years, but the other faces were the same, most of them still young.

They'd all been so damned young.

Harry opened the bedroom door carefully and peered down the hall. There was a light still, from the stairs leading up to Snape's attic workroom, but Harry didn't care. He slipped down the center stairs, pausing only once when the third stair creaked.

The door to the kitchen balcony was unlocked and unwarded and Harry sank into one of the weathered wooden chairs in relief, pulling the blue phial from his pocket along with the pack of cigarettes. He quaffed a half-capful of potion before dipping a cigarette into the phial. He capped it and tossed it on the table with the du Mauriers.

The phial clattered across the worn green and blue mosaic--a sea serpent, Harry noted, and he was quite certain Malfoy was responsible for that. Snape would have picked a bloody basilisk.

The air was cool against his bare skin and he breathed out slowly, relaxing into the Cushioning Charm in the chair. His hand only trembled slightly as he lit the fag.

Harry stared out over the lights of Vancouver.

He wondered if Malfoy had come out here at night like this. He blew out a stream of smoke, watching it twist up into the glittering shadows of the skyscrapers. He could almost believe he saw a flash of silver-gilt hair next to him, a smirk and a sneer.

It was strange to think of him with Snape. Stranger still to think of them living here. Harry leaned his head back against the chair and took another drag. The potion burned through him, loosening his tight muscles. He felt warm, drifting, calm.

Calm was good.

He hadn't been calm in years. Not without the potion, and he and Ginny had argued about that. Still did when she gave enough of a damn to ask about the dreams.

She didn't ask much lately.

Harry propped his feet on the balcony railing and breathed in the smoky scent of burning tobacco, tinged with the slightest sweetness. He thought perhaps Malfoy must have hated it here, having to hide, to live like someone he loathed, and he felt the slightest flash of pity for the arse and yet--he hesitated. Perhaps not.

What would it be like, he wondered, to not have to hide other parts of yourself? To be able to fuck and to love and to marry--his hand trembled as he took another drag.

He and Ginny had married two weeks after they found out she was pregnant. It'd been a quiet ceremony in the back garden of the Burrow with only a few friends and the Weasleys. He'd been ecstatically happy. He was eighteen and he finally had what he'd wanted. A family.

And he'd completely ignored the twist in his gut every time Ron kissed Hermione. Or the fact that when Ginny's head was bent over his cock and his fingers were twisted in her red hair, he sometimes thought of her brother's mouth and he'd come hard and fast.

Until Percy.

The first time they'd been drunk in his flat, commiserating over Percy's divorce from Penelope, and he'd admitted that she'd found him sucking off a colleague in his office after hours and it'd seemed entirely natural at the time for Harry to suggest Percy suck him off.

He had.

And Harry had thought about Ron and Ron's mouth and Ron's hair as he came.

The affair had lasted three weeks--three tense weeks of quick, nervous fucks and Percy pushing him out of bed minutes after they came and ignoring him in the Ministry hallways, of Harry guilt-ridden about cheating on his wife and ashamed of being unable to stop.

She'd found out, of course. Ginny had never been stupid or naïve. And when she found him in Percy's bed she'd packed up her things and Emma's too.

He didn't like to think of the next six months. The fights and the screaming and the arguments over their ten-year-old daughter.

And then his capitulation. His agreement to keep his dirty little secret hidden in return for primary custody of his daughter. A promise not to embarrass his ex-wife.

It hadn't seemed a difficult choice. He hadn't wanted to be a fucking poof anyway.

Poof. Nancy-boy. Arse-bandit. Knob jockey. Wily-woofter. He'd heard all the names in school. Used them himself. Christ. How many times had he and Ron mocked Malfoy for being a sodding chutney ferret?

At least he'd been happy. Harry breathed in the potion-laced nicotine. This one thing the sod'd never had to lie about.

Harry huffed out a thick puff of smoke. He was fucking jealous of a damned Death Eater.

He stubbed out the cigarette and closed his eyes.

_Pansy. Nellie. Mincer._

Harry hoofter.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," he murmured, and he could swear he heard a laugh.

*******************************

Severus was bent over a stack of books, scribbling notes feverishly into the notebook and cursing the inanity of Muggle writing devices, when Potter entered his workroom, carrying two mugs of tea. He set one on the desk in front of Severus. Bergamot-scented steam curled up from the dark liquid, tempting Severus.

His mother always had made a brilliant cup of Earl Grey.

Potter frowned at him. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Severus sighed in annoyance. "I fail to see what business it is of yours whether or not I did."

"It's called politeness, Snape. Christ." Potter wandered over to the small window overlooking the back garden. He stared down at it. "You have a Venomous Tentacula?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, and we allowed it to gnaw upon annoying visitors. Potter, do you have a reason for disturbing me or are you truly as brainlessly dunderheaded as you were twenty years ago?"

"How'd you keep the Muggles from noticing it?" Potter took a sip of his tea.

"Muggles are notorious for ignoring most things beyond their minute capacities to understand. It wasn't that difficult, do believe me." Severus set his quill down and sighed again. Potter obviously had no intention of leaving him be. "For the most part they are neither imaginative nor intelligent. Now, get out."

Potter ignored him and instead sat in the chair across the desk from Severus, sipping tea from the heavy ceramic mug cradled between his clumsy, wide hands.

Draco's chair. Severus flinched. No one but Draco had ever sat there, mocking him affectionately for his tendency to lose himself in magical research despite the fact that nothing he discovered could ever be published in proper journals under his actual name. And yet his husband had understood. Neither of them had been willing to let go of their magic, not entirely, and so they had confined it here, to this house, behind a myriad wards to protect them from Muggles and mages alike.

It had been surprisingly easy to hide. Until he hadn't cared to do so any longer.

"Get out, Potter," Severus said, suddenly very tired. "I have work to do."

Potter set his mug on the desk. "What are you going to do when you find him?"

Severus just looked at him, one eyebrow raised. _Idiot._

Potter flushed. "You know what I mean." He picked mindlessly at a stack of papers, folding their corners. "I mean, he's dead."

"For all intents and purposes, Potter, so am I." Severus picked his quill up again.

A hand came down on his paper. Potter suddenly loomed over him, his hair sticking up every which way. "I'm serious, Snape. Are you really going to stay here? Is that what you truly want?"

Severus hesitated. Of course it was. Living among memories was far preferable to the loneliness of the world outside. Any fool could understand that. He looked up at Potter. "Do I have any other choice?" His mouth twisted. "Two months in Azkaban was more than enough for me. Why would I not prefer to stay here?"

"You loved him."

Severus met Potter's gaze directly. "I married him."

"I envy you," Potter said flatly, stepping back. He stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. "Let's go then. I want to bloody go home."

"What the hell are you on about?" Severus asked, tired. He stared down at his calculations and notes.

Potter's mouth thinned. "There's only one real way of getting us both what we want. Eventually one of these damned mirrors will work for one of us at least, so get off your damned arse and come on."

The absolute nerve of the brat. Severus's shoulders tightened and he ground his teeth together. Arrogant little prick. "Do not speak to me in that manner, Mr Potter."

Potter merely looked at him with those damned green eyes and at that moment Severus hated him with every fibre of his being. Just for those eyes filled with pity and disdain and he briefly considered sending the pigeons to peck them out.

Instead he stood with a scowl. "Cretin," he muttered.

Potter shrugged and opened the door.

***************************

Croaker set the Sneakascope on the kitchen table. "I don't expect to find anything Dark here," he said, spreading a dragonhide mat across the tabletop, "but one must allow for all possibilities." He glanced at Emma. "Book, child."

Emma handed over the journal and Croaker unwrapped it carefully, laying it on the dragonhide. He slid a pair of brass goggles over his spectacles, tapping them lightly with his wand. They whirred and twitched and the lenses telescoped out from beneath his shaggy eyebrows and his eyes themself seemed to bulge out of the ends. Emma stumbled backwards into Tonks. Her godmother steadied her.

"Careful, love," she murmured.

Croaker chortled. "The better to see magic with, my dear," he said, and turned his attention to the page in front of him.

Emma bit her lip and crossed her fingers in her robe. She wanted Dad home. Now.

The kitchen clock chimed three.

*****************************

The potions classroom was cold and empty, but books and essays were scattered over Snape's desk and a single candle burned in the dark. Snape stood over them, and he ran a hand over the stack of curled scrolls. His shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, leaning against one of the student desks. His own, he recalled, and his fingers brushed the top of the wood until he found the small hp he'd carved there so many years past.

"Just don't," Snape said, and he turned. His face was drawn and worn. "Let's go."

He brushed past Harry and then he stopped and looked back, glancing around the room. "I didn't entirely loathe teaching, you know," he said, and Harry thought he might almost be hesitant. "Not entirely."

"You loathed me," Harry pointed out.

Snape's mouth twisted. "Of course."

Harry snorted. "Because of my dad."

"Among other reasons." Snape turned to the small mirror hanging above the stone sink. "You were quite easy to loathe on your own merits, Potter."

"You could go see him, you know." Harry walked up behind Snape. He met Snape's eyes in the mirror. "He's in his dormitory."

Snape was silent a moment, and then his mouth tightened. "No matter what you may think of me, Potter, I am not so degenerate as to molest a child."

"That's not what I meant," Harry protested, but he stopped. That wasn't entirely true. He knew it. Snape snorted and shook his head. He pressed his hand into the mirror and Harry caught his shoulder as the room jerked from beneath his feet with the familiar twist in his stomach.

_They were twisted together on the bed, naked and rutting up against one another as they kissed roughly. _

"Christ, Evan," Severus groaned, threading his fingers through blond hair as the other boy bit his neck. "How long do we have?"

 

"They're in Divination," Rosier whispered against his skin. "Enough time for you to fuck me and are you going to get on with it or not?"

Severus laughed and rolled over, pressing Rosier into the bed. "I thought I'd have you suck me first."

"Bastard." Rosier jerked him down and kissed him roughly. "Cock. In me." He pressed his hips up. "Now, Severus."

"Cheeky little bottom today, aren't we?"

 

Rosier snorted and bit Severus's shoulder. "Cheeky little bottom who had to sit through Potions watching you brew lube all bloody afternoon." He ran his mouth over Severus's jaw. "Knew what you wanted to do with it."

Severus reached for a phial on the bed and dipped his fingers in. "Slughorn'll never figure it out either. Stupid twat."

"Merlin," Rosier groaned as Severus pressed a finger into him, and he spread his legs wider. "More."

With a groan Severus pulled his hand away and pushed Rosier's knees into the mattress. He stroked his cock, slicking the remnants of oil over his foreskin as Rosier watched with glittering eyes. "Say you want me, you sod."

 

Rosier gasped, arching into Severus as he slid his cock through his crease. "I want your cock."

"Good enough," Severus said, and he pushed in.

Harry fell on the floor, stunned and breathless, with the image of Snape's cock still forefront in his mind.

Snape's cock. Oh, God. Snape. Having sex. His professor. Murderer. Death Eater.

Sex.

In school.

_Christ._

His jeans were tight and he could feel the blood pounding through him as he dug his fingernails into the polished wood floor of the bookstore, staring down at the faint reflection of himself in the smooth wax. His stomach lurched angrily and he breathed out. He was jealous. Christ. He was jealous of Snape. So free. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. At seventeen Harry had only barely managed to convince himself that he liked the feel of Ginny's tits more than the brush of Ron's arm.

"Get up, Potter," Snape snapped, his voice oddly tight and when Harry looked up, Snape's face was flushed. He looked away, his mouth thin.

And suddenly it was too much for Harry. What Snape had--what he'd wanted--

"You filthy fucking slag," he shouted as he clambered to his feet. He pushed Snape, hard, sending him staggering against the bookshelves.

Snape righted himself quickly and he grabbed Harry by the shoulder. "Watch your tongue, Potter," he snarled, and he shoved him backwards. Harry fell, sprawling across the floor and Snape was suddenly leaning over him, his palm pressing into Harry's chest. "Don't you dare be a hypocrite."

Harry glared up at him. "I don't know what you're talking about, you fucking poof. Get your hands off me." He shoved Snape's hand away.

"Percy Weasley," Snape said smoothly. Harry gasped and flinched. Shit. Harry stared up into Snape's face. The older man smiled, a tight, angry twist of his lips. "Really, Potter, your Floo conversations are most illuminating."

"I'm not--"

"Don't even try." Snape cut him off.

Harry swallowed. "I'm not like you. Percy was--"

"Oh, do get over yourself, Mr Potter," Snape said with a sneer. "So you enjoy the company of men. Does it appear as if I, of all people, give a damn who or what you take to your bed? Although I suppose you might have found better than Weasley." He rolled his eyes. "I'm quite certain he was a cold fish."

"He wasn't--" Harry stopped and glared up at Snape who smirked down at him. "Shut up."

"You are not the first person in this world to find themselves homosexual, Potter." Snape rocked back on his heels. "I'd suggest you come to terms with it at some point and stop using Placidus Potion to numb yourself."

"I don't--"

"I'm not a fool." Snape glared at him. "I know the signs of addiction."

"I'm not--"

At Snape's hiss, Harry fell silent. He sat up, rubbing his shoulder. "Bastard." He pulled his knees up to his chest. "It's not that easy," he said sullenly.

"Don't be an imbecile." Snape stood up, brushing dust off his trousers. "It's far easier than you think it to be. Not everything has to be a battle." He curled his lip and turned away. "A truth that Gryffindors seem unable to discern." He stopped at the door, but didn't look back. "Placidus can kill you, Potter. It weakens the heart and arterial muscles with extended use. I would suggest you leave it be, if you wish to see your daughter leave Hogwarts."

His feet echoed on the stairs.

Harry shivered and pressed his face to his knees.

****************************************

It was barely misting outside, which counted as a sunny day for Vancouver. Severus smiled faintly. Draco had spent a good half hour nearly every morning for ten years glaring into the mirror, complaining about his hair being impossible in the rain.

He knelt before the Venomous Tentacula. The spiky, dark red vines curled towards him and he knocked them back with a sharp stick. "Stop that." The plant drew back at the sharp tone, vines twisting petulantly around its roots.

"Severus."

His mother picked her way through the overgrown plants--Severus had let the garden go to pot after Draco's death. It'd been too much at the time; too much to remember, too much to do, too much. Five years spent drinking in the twilight each night, sleeping in his workroom--anything to stave off the loneliness that came with nightfall.

It hadn't worked.

His mother sat beside him, as she had so many years past, pulling him gently towards her. He leaned into her shoulder, letting her drag her fingers through his thick, lank hair. She touched his cheek lightly. "I've missed you," she murmured.

"I know."

A butterfly flitted around the red columbine. Severus brushed it away with a scowl. Ridiculous creatures.

"Why did you do it?" he asked finally.

Eileen sighed. "I've asked myself that more than once, believe me."

"I thought he did it at first." Severus stared into the bushes. "Even accused him of it. He just laughed at me and threw me out of the house."

Eileen's fingers trembled in his hair. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

He jerked away. "You killed yourself. You left me there with him and you killed yourself without even thinking about me, about what would happen, about what he'd do. I was sixteen and he THREW ME OUT OF THE HOUSE."

"You don't know what it was like--"

"I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT IT WAS LIKE!" Severus shouted. He rubbed his forehead, swallowing down the twist of bile in his throat. "I lived there too."

Eileen was silent a moment. "I didn't think, perhaps. I was hurting and I didn't know how to escape."

"You could have left," Severus said, his voice dull. He stood up, damp grass clinging to his trousers, and he walked over to the patch of hellebore.

"And where would we have gone?" Eileen gave him an incredulous look. "Where would I have gone? You were nearly out of Hogwarts and Mother barely spoke to me after Father died because of Tobias. She wouldn't have helped. She told me I made my bed, marrying a Muggle."

"You shouldn't have married him!" Severus spat out, turning to glare at her.

"I was pregnant!"

A pause, then Severus sighed. "You should have aborted me. You tried. Don't deny it; I read what you wrote. Here. In these pages."

"Then you also read why I couldn't go through with it." Eileen stood up and walked over to Severus. She touched his face. "You're mine, Severus. You always have been."

He closed his eyes. "We could have gone to Linus. He'd have helped."

"Yes," his mother said, and she sounded weary. "He would have. And it would have made things a hundredfold worse between him and your father."

Severus looked at her then, saw the lines on her face and the strands of grey at her temples. Here, she was younger than he was. Only a few years older than Potter. She'd barely lived. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"I made a mistake," Eileen said. "And with every word you wrote in this journal I knew it. I've lived with that for years." She met his eyes. "I don't want you to keep paying for that."

"I'm not."

"Of course not." She snorted, but her eyes softened. "Harry can help you."

"I don't want Azkaban." Severus's jaw tightened. "I won't go back."

Eileen kissed his cheek. "I'm not quite certain that's what I meant." She drew back and brushed her knuckles against his jaw. "He's here for a reason too. You know as well as I do that nothing happens by coincidence. And he's scared. He has a daughter, and he misses her. Just like I missed you."

"And what am I to do about that?" Severus narrowed his eyes. "I'm trying to help him get home."

His mother pinched his arm. "Take him some place. Eat. Drink. Talk to him as if he's a human being for once. Help him to think about something other than his panic to get home for just a few hours."

"That's utterly ridiculous."

He recognised the look his mother gave him. Mouth tight, eyebrows drawn together. He sighed. "Oh, for the love of---"

"Do it, Severus." Eileen pushed him towards the house. "I'm tired of the screaming. I dealt with it while I was alive and you can damned well be certain I have no intention of listening to it while I'm dead."

"Damned bossy cow," Severus muttered, stomping across the grass.

He slammed the back door behind him.

*******************************

Potter was in the bookstore, sitting on the floor in front of the sex and sexuality bookcases with a copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ open on his lap. Severus rolled his eyes.

"You'll want a beginner's manual, Potter," he said, pulling the book from Harry's grasp and returning it to the shelf.

"Sod off," Potter said sullenly.

Severus raised his eyebrow in amusement at the familiar petulant tone. "Get up and go put on some decent clothing." He hesitated. "There's a wardrobe in the bedroom my mother has claimed. Choose something and transfigure it to fit."

Potter blinked. "Why?"

"Because." Severus sighed. "I've been ordered to take you to dinner. Go and dress."

He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs without waiting for Potter's response. "And for God's sake, don't wear those idiotic shoes."

*****************************

The Fountainhead was the oddest pub Harry had been in to date. And given that he'd frequented the Cauldron and the Hog's Head quite often over the past few years....

The bar was polished cherry and the walls were dark green and bright neon lights encouraged the patrons to drink Molson and Labatt and Guiness. A snooker table in the corner was surrounded by men, laughing and placing bets on the next shot and the crowd around of men and women around the dartboards was just as noisy and boisterous.

Harry, however, stared up at the artwork that Snape had his back to. Three nudes--two men and a woman--and each piece nearly as tall as him, the muscles defined in heavy, thick strokes of black paint and highlighted with swirls of yellow and red and blue, the lines clearly arching to the visual points of each canvas.

Penises.

Well. Penises and a pussy, he supposed.

But still. Penises.

Or was it penes?

He couldn't believe Snape came here. Snape. And judging from the nod the barman had given them as they walked in, he assumed that he came fairly frequently--and his face reddened at that mental phrasing.

"Oh, good God, Potter, they're only paintings," Snape snapped and Harry looked at him then.

And flushed more.

The man was ugly. And greasy. And a hateful bastard. And somehow he managed to make that plain white shirt look damn good. Harry grimaced. Right. That knock on his head must have really been harder than he thought.

"This is a gay pub," Harry hissed, his eyes darting to the rainbow flag hanging next to the bar.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Potter. I live on the outskirts of Davie Village in Vancouver. There are no bloody pubs in this area that are not, as you put it, a gay pub. And as I am a sodding poof and you not an hour past had your nose buried in the midst of a homosexual kama sutra, I fail to see the logic of  
your idiotic outrage."

Harry glared at him. "You did this on purpose."

A smirk.

"Look at you." Two pints appeared on the table in front of them, set  
down by a manicured hand and heavily bangled wrist. The waiter grinned at  
Snape. "Finally out and about, are you? It's about time you weren't  
drinking alone."

"Oh, do shut up, Malcolm." Snape took his glass. "This had  
damned well better be Molson and not that shite you cook up in the  
backroom."

"I have _missed_ your silver tongue," Malcolm said. He patted Harry's shoulder. "Don't mind him. Even cranky bastards need a good fuck now and then."

"I'm not--I mean, that is--" Harry stumbled over the words, blinking at Snape.

"Potter," Snape drawled over the rim of his glass, "is in a quest to prove to himself that he's not a poof."

Malcolm looked at Harry then, from head to toe, one eyebrow arched. "Oh, honey," he said sympathetically. "You're as light in your loafers as any fellow I've seen in here."

"I'm--I--" Harry sputtered. "I have a daughter."

"Yes, and I have an eight-year-old and that doesn't make me any less of a queer." Malcolm ruffled Harry's hair and smirked at Snape. "He's cute. If you don't want him--"

"Food, Malcolm," Snape said dryly as Harry pulled away in horror, mouth half-open. "Shepherd's pie. Two."

"You are so predictable," Malcolm said with a sigh. "There's a fantastic teriyaki salmon--"

"Shepherd's. Pie." Snape glared at him.

"All _right._ Jesus. Shepherd's pie and stop giving me that eye." He trailed his fingers over Harry's shoulder, then leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Maybe later you can ditch him..."

"NOW," Snape snarled and Malcolm dropped his hand.

"Fine, fine, you crabby old queen."

Harry blinked at Snape as Malcolm stomped off. "Who the hell was that? And did he just say he fancied me?"

"That, Potter, was one of our local deviants." Snape took a sip of his beer. "And he didn't say he fancied you. He said he'd fuck you. There's a difference."

"Oh." Harry hesitated, and he glanced back at Malcolm. _Nice arse,_ he thought before he caught himself and he wiped his palms against his trousers. Snape's trousers. He was sitting here, in a gay pub, with Severus Snape, wearing his clothes. Life suddenly felt incredibly surreal, and he stifled an urge to laugh. Or cry. He wasn't entirely certain which. "So did you come here often?"

"Often enough. The food's decent and when one doesn't have a house-elf..." Snape looked away.

"Malfoy didn't cook?" Harry twisted his glass between his hands. It was cool and wet.

"No. Not frequently," Snape said and Harry thought he almost smiled. "Draco was not overly fond of the culinary arts. Nor was he familiar with Muggle appliances. He had a tendency to burn things."

Harry smiled faintly. "I can imagine what he said to that."

"Yes."

Inexplicably nervous, Harry rubbed his thumb over the rim of his glass. "What happened to him?" he asked softly.

Snape stared down into his glass. "A curse."

"How?" Harry sat back, surprised. "I mean, you were living as Muggles--"

"Some curses take a very long time to reach their full potential, Mr Potter." Snape lifted his glass and took a drink, then set it back down with a thud. Beer splashed over his knuckles. "He acquired it during the war."

"And it couldn't be broken?" That didn't sound right. Surely Snape would have been able to break any curse an Auror cast--

"I tried. For ten damned years." Snape stared off into the distance. "The only thing that might have broken it was for him to leave. To go back to his father. And he wouldn't. No matter how I insisted. He always was a muleheaded twit."

Harry breathed out. "He loved you." He felt a irrational stab of jealousy. Ginny'd never have--not for him---but then, would he have for her? He sighed.

"Oh, don't be a maudlin fool," Snape snapped, and he took another sip of beer. "Draco may have loved me, but he wasn't an idiot. His refusal to return home wasn't out of some noble Gryffindor ideal, but pure self-preservation. Avoidance of Azkaban and his father who was entirely irate about our particular arrangement, need I say? Not to mention he considered Vancouver a means to be free of his responsibility to marry that imbecile Parkinson and sire a brat off her. Lucius was far from pleased, I can assure you."

Harry looked up sharply. "Lucius put the curse on his own son?"

"What use was he to him?" Snape snorted. "The last of the Malfoys being one of the great buggers of England. Hardly likely to further the line. In Lucius' eyes he was better off dead. To his credit he gave him a decade to change his mind. Of course the damned twat died himself three years before the curse was to kill his son, so the entire issue became a moot point. Draco had always intended to wait until the last moment possible. It was a gamble that didn't pay off."

"That's...." Harry picked up his glass and drained half his beer in one swallow. "I can't imagine, with Emma--"

Snape gave him a sardonic smirk. "You're not a Malfoy."

"No," Harry said. "I reckon I'm not."

Snape looked away, raising his glass again. "Percy Weasley," he said. "Whatever for?"

Harry shifted in his chair, uncomfortable all of a sudden. "I don't know."

"Oh, come, Potter," Snape said, and Harry tried not to notice the sheen of beer on his upper lip, or the quick dart of his tongue to catch it. "It's obvious the choice."

"What exactly does that mean?" Harry demanded. He glared at Snape. Fucking arrogant sod thought he knew everything--

"You married the Weasley girl and had an affair with the, might I point out, most uptight male of the entire clan. And given the fact that you and Ronald Weasley fought and made up at least twice a year during your school days, all signs would indicate that you most likely spent a great deal of time in your bed trying not to think of rogering your best friend instead of his sister."

\--okay. So maybe he had some insight. Fucking arrogant bastard. Harry drained his beer. "That is not--" he broke off and scowled at Snape. "Listen, some of us didn't have an uncle to explore our sexuality with."

"I can assure you," Snape said into his glass, "that I did not explore my sexuality _with_ him. Nevertheless, point made."

Harry eyed him. "What was it like?"

"What, Potter?" Snape motioned for another beer and the bartender nodded.

"I don't know." Harry picked his glass up, then set it down again, making wet rings over the tabletop. "Having someone who already knew what it was like. I mean..." He leaned closer and darted his eyes to one side. "How'd you know?"

"Merlin's tits," Snape muttered. "I just did, Potter. I saw a naked man; I got hard. It wasn't that difficult to figure out."

"But I--with Gin--" Harry flushed. Christ. He needed more alcohol for this discussion.

"It's not uncommon for a gay man to reach orgasm with a woman," Snape said wearily. "Or perhaps you're bisexual."

"But how do you know?" Harry asked as Malcolm set two beers and two plates of shepherd's pie in front of them. "I mean, gay, bi, straight?"

"Whatever pops your rod, honey," Malcolm said with a wink, and Harry sank lower in his chair.

"For the love of God, do go drown yourself in one of those damned kegs." Snape glowered at Malcolm. "The world would rejoice."

The waiter blew a kiss at him. "He secretly adores me, you know," he whispered to Harry as he walked off. Snape rolled his eyes and took another long drink of beer. He set his glass down and glared at Harry.

"Potter, have you ever heard of a Muggle named Kinsey?"

**************************

Croaker pulled his goggles off and pushed the Pensieve aside and Emma sat up in her chair, tense at the sober expression on his face.

"What is it?" Kingsley asked, leaning over the table. "Can you break the charms?"

"Most." Croaker hesitated, his eyes sliding to Emma.

"Potter," Kingsley started but Tonks cut him off.

"She can stay," she said, her voice tight and a little too loud. "It's her father we're talking about and I wouldn't want to leave if it were mine."

Emma curled her fingers around her godmother's and squeezed. Tonks stroked her thumb over the back of Emma's hand.

"Well then," Croaker said brusquely, closing the journal. "I can get through the majority of the charms, yes. Standard Pensieve--a third year Auror candidate could countermand them. However there's one in particular that I can't seem to identify." He shook his head, his jowls swinging slightly, and he sighed and ran a hand through his thinning thatch of wild white hair. "I truly don't know if we get them back."

"Bloody fuck," Emma whispered.

*******************

"So what you're telling me," Harry said as they walked down Davie Street together, under the glow of neon and halogen, "is that there's this continuum, and I could be anywhere on it because I can sleep with birds and blokes."

"Something like that," Snape said, and he caught Harry as he stumbled to avoid a lamppost. "Idiot."

"I think," Harry said, hand to his forehead, as they continued down the pavement, "that I probably shouldn't have had that last beer."

"I'd say last two."

Harry stopped in front of a store window. Pink neon inside the glass lit up a male mannequin, clad in a pair of leather shorts and a thin black collar, and a black silk robe lined with swirl of rainbow colours. He blinked. "Jesus Christ." He looked over at Snape. "Do you wear that?"

"No!" Snape's lip curled at him. "Have you lost your mind?"

"The leather'd chafe, I think," Harry said. "Let's go inside." He opened the door.

"Potter," Snape snapped, but Harry ignored him, bounding into the brightly lit store.

A display of brightly coloured penises caught his attention, and he picked up a purple one, thick and veiny. "Merlin," he breathed, turning it in his hand. "That's...impossibly huge."

Snape took it from him and set it back on the shelf, nearly knocking over a larger flesh-coloured dildo. "And impossibly purple."

"Do you really, I mean, that goes--" Harry stared at it as he stroked along the underside of a penis-and-balls combination

"In one's arse, yes. Generally for masturbatory purposes, but I have known men who enjoyed using them with a partner." Snape snorted. "I take it Mr Weasley's cock was rather small."

Harry shivered at cock coming out of his former professor's mouth so easily, and he wrapped his arms around his thin chest. Yeah. That last beer was a really, really, really bad idea.

He poked at a small cone of fleshy rubber. "What about this?"

"Anal plug," Snape replied with a sigh.

"Right." Harry raised an eyebrow. "Why the hell would you want to plug your anus?"

"Because it feels good. Merlin, Potter, I am _not_ a bloody sex guide."

Harry flushed, and he walked to the other side of the counter, running his fingers over bottles of lubricant and boxes of condoms. He looked across a stack of film cases, emblazoned with cocks and arses of every shape and size and colour. "You know, I could have sex." Wonder twisted through him. He could. He could have sex. Here. For the first time in--Christ, don't even think about it. "Sex with anyone I wanted and she'd never know. No consequences." He laughed--and it turned into a groan. "Oh, my God." His eyes widened. "I could. I mean, I really could. As much as I wanted."

Snape eyed him. "You do realise that even in this reality there are such dangers as, oh, human immunodeficiency virus, gonorrhea, and syphilis. I'm quite certain your ex-wife would object to you returning with a sexually transmitted disease."

Harry held up a box of Kimono Maxx.

"To begin with, I highly doubt you even know how to put one on." Snape reached over and picked up a box of Durex condoms and shoved them towards Harry. "Secondly, the damned things aren't supposed to fall off."

"Fuck you." Harry snapped, suddenly irritated beyond all belief. How the man could drive him up the damned wall... "Now where do I find the bloody blokes?"

*****************************

Severus leaned back against the bar at Numbers, head aching from the ridiculous idiotic music the damned Muggles insisted upon playing. It was crowded and he was tired and the flashing lights pained his eyes.

He was too damned old for this. He'd been too damned old for it when Draco had dragged him here.

He reached for his whisky again, draining the glass. A crook of his finger and the bartender poured another.

Severus had no idea where Potter had gotten to, but he strongly suspected the fool had found some inane, idiotic airhead to teach him the finer points of fucking. Not that he gave a damn whom Potter picked for his tutor this evening.

He quaffed his whisky and turned the glass upside down, next to the two others.

"Hi."

Fingers brushed his shoulder and Severus glared up at a handsome blond who took a step back at his unspoken vehemence and blinked. "Go to hell," Severus snapped, and pushed himself off the bar. He was going to find Potter and tell him he was bloody leaving.

The crowd was thick and Severus had to shove away several pairs of groping hands--good God, he swore there was a limit to what he could take--until he finally located Potter on the second floor of the club, chatting up what looked to be a bespectacled English professor from UBC--Severus squinted and then snorted in amusement. It _was_ a bespectacled English professor from UBC.

"Harwood," he said, causing Potter to jump and whirl around with a scowl.

The professor looked at him in relief. "Severus. Hello. I keep meaning to come by and pick up that annotated Milton from you."

Severus considered toying with them both; the opportunities for amusement were myriad. But he did loathe this place and Harwood was nothing but a twitchy mouse as it was. He sighed. "Your husband's looking for you, " he said not caring if the fool had even bothered to come this evening. "Downstairs at the bar."

Harwood bobbed his head, looking even more twitchy and mousy than before, if that was even possible, and he scampered off, murmuring his apologies.

Potter's shoulders slumped.

"How many?" Severus asked dryly.

"Four," Harry muttered. "Bollocksed up each time." He sighed. "Five if you count the lesbian that I thought was a bloke."

Severus smirked. He didn't bother to tell Potter he'd managed that himself once.

"I'm never going to be able to do this," Potter said, and he set his glass of bourbon down. "I just can't. I'm too old, and it's just---" He held his hands out helplessly. "I can't."

And Severus was suddenly reminded of himself, nearly forty years past. The fear. The worry. The tension. The need. He couldn't imagine that at Potter's age.

Perhaps it was the whisky.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps after five years he just needed a bloody good shag.

He caught Potter's face in his hands, sliding his fingers up to tangle in the thick, dark hair, and Potter's eyes were wide and luminous and so very damned green when he kissed him.

***********************

Harry wasn't entirely certain how they'd made it back to the house.

He knew there'd been several detours to push one another against the side of a building or a fence, and once even a car, mouths desperate against each other. It'd been so long since he'd done anything other than wank, and Snape--Christ--he was kissing him hungrily, and Harry couldn't help but kiss him back, their mouths warm and wet, their teeth knocking together painfully at first until they found the right angle.

They made it up the porch steps--a nearly five minute process--and Snape had pulled away long enough to tell Harry how to unward the door, and then they were inside and Harry pressed Snape against the counter.

"I want to suck you," Harry whispered, fumbling with the buttons on Snape's shirt. "I've never done that and I want to so don't tell me no."

Snape gripped the edge of the counter. "I'm not a fool, Potter," he gasped out as Harry's hands slid up under his shirt to smooth across his warm skin.

"Good." Harry grinned against Snape's mouth and he slid to his knees, his fingertips tracing over the bulge in Snape's trousers. _Cock,_ his mind whispered. _Cock. Cock. Snape's cock_ and he shivered.

Snape's hips bucked forward. "Potter," he said tightly, and Harry pulled at the buttons and zip, pressing the black wool aside. There was a flash of white cotton and then Harry had Snape's pants pushed down, lifting free his heavy cock and balls.

Christ. Harry's breath caught at the brush of smooth, heated skin against his palm. Ridges and veins so very like his own--and so very different. Without thinking, he pressed his face to the crisp black curls at the base of Snape's cock, breathing in musk and sweat with a ragged gasp. The hairs were scratchy-soft against his lips and the metal teeth of the zipper bit into his cheek and Harry groaned as Snape's fingers slid across his head, pulling him closer.

"Take me in your mouth," Snape whispered. Harry didn't hesitate; he dragged his open mouth along the thick, hard curve of Snape's cock, his fingers circling the base. Snape groaned.

Harry licked around the head of Snape's cock, stroked his thumb along the underside. Snape shivered and his head fell back. He clutched the counter, his knuckles white and tense. "Use your hand, Potter."

Merlin. Harry shifted, his trousers tight against his own cock and he groaned when it brushed against Snape's calf. He stroked his fingers up Snape's cock, twisting them with each quick pull, as he slid his mouth over the head, his tongue flicking lightly across hot, wet skin.

He tasted bloody incredible. "It's not a damned lollipop, you realise," Snape said through gritted teeth. "A little suction would be acceptable at the moment."

Harry pulled away. "Do you want to fucking do this yourself?"

Snape grabbed the scruff of Harry's neck. "More, Potter," he snapped, looking down at him with glittering dark eyes. "I want to come down your damned pretty throat."

_Fuck._ Harry slid his mouth down Snape's cock, catching his hips in his hands, and trying not to gag at the firm press of blunt cock into his throat. He sucked, ignoring the saliva that slid out of the corner of his mouth.

"Careful," Snape gasped, lurching forward and grabbing Harry's shoulders. "Too much and you'll--oh _God,_ Potter, do that again."

Harry twisted his head, running his tongue along the underside of Snape's cock; Snape moaned and his hips bucked, his cock pressing further into Harry's mouth.

"Yes," he gasped, digging his fingernails into Harry's shoulder blades. "Suck--oh--God, yes. Like that."

Suck and lick and suck and lick and Harry's breath came in hard, quick puffs. This felt strange and surreal and fucking amazing all at once. He slid one hand beneath Snape's balls, palming them gently, thumb stroking over the heavy hot curve of soft skin and rough hair. Snape was groaning, his hips rocking forward, meeting each suck of Harry's lips, his head thrown back, his throat a long pale curve in the moonlight.

Harry swallowed around the smooth knob of Snape's cock.

"Potter--I'm not--I can't---" Snape's hips jerked and his body tensed underneath Harry's fingers and Harry knew he wouldn't last much longer--he couldn't--and then Snape was coming in a hot, thick, salty-bitter spurt and a sharp cry.

Swallow? Spit? Harry panicked, uncertain, and then Snape pressed in again, a quick jerk of his hips, and Harry swallowed in reflex as that fucking incredible cock pulled away.

And then Snape was tugging him up to his feet and his tongue was inside Harry's mouth again, licking slowly, languorously, tasting himself on Harry's tongue, and Harry pressed his cock against Snape's hip, rutting up against him openly, wantonly, even, until Snape slid his hand between them and loosened Harry's trousers.

Long, cool fingers curled over his heavy cock, and Snape's thumb slid over the sticky head.

"Do it," Harry whispered into Snape's jaw. "Get me off."

Snape's teeth were sharp against his throat, and his palm stroked up Harry's cock, an even, measured tug. "Do you want me to fuck you, Potter?" He twisted his fingers, pressing down, and Harry gasped, his hips bucking into the touch. "I'll take that as a yes."

Harry nodded.

"Upstairs." Snape breathed against Harry's jaw. "Now."

Harry pulled away.

*******************************

Potter groaned and pressed his arse back against Severus's face. His skin was flushed and damp with sweat and he rocked back on his knees, his cock dragging across the rumpled white sheets.

"Please, oh Christ, please," he gasped out as Severus licked lightly across his hole, the tip of his tongue pressing in.

Potter was tight and Severus's cock ached at the thought of pushing in, of taking Potter quick and hard. But no. Potter was going to know exactly what it felt like to be fucked. Merlin knew that idiot Weasley was far too uptight to give him a proper shag.

Severus smacked Potter's arse, watching in satisfaction as the skin reddened and Potter flinched.

"Roll over," Severus murmured, mouthing up the knobbly ridge of Potter's spine before pulling away, and Potter whimpered, then shifted beneath him.

Severus straddled his thighs.

In the moonlight, Potter's skin gleamed pale, and Severus traced his fingers down that firm chest, stopping to pinch a hard, brown nipple. Potter bit his lip and caught Severus's thighs. "That's nice," he choked out. Severus smirked and pinched the nipple again, then scraped his thumbnail over it, flicking back and forth. "Fuck," Potter whispered.

Potter's body wasn't perfect; there were puckered white scars and curse burns from the war, and his waist was thicker than it had been sixteen years ago, with the slightest paunch from too much whisky and lager.

But his cock was heavy and hard, curved against his stomach and the fingertips tracing small circles across Severus's thin thighs were roughened, but gentle. He wasn't a boy any longer, and he was bloody beautiful, stretched beneath Severus like this.

He wanted him.

Now.

Severus reached for the phial he'd dropped on the bed earlier, when Potter had pushed him down on the mattress and jerked his trousers off, and now he uncapped it, his hand barely shaking as he poured a small pool of clear oil in his palm.

Potter's breath caught. "Is that--"

"I'm quite certain you don't want me to fuck you without it," Severus said dryly. "Spread your legs wider."

Potter opened his thighs, raising up on his elbows.

Severus slid a slick finger into Potter and he groaned, canting his hips wider. "Oh, Christ," Potter whispered, his head falling back. "That feels--oh, _Christ."_

Another finger, pushing deeper. Severus's breath was coming in sharp, short pants. Potter was tight. Fucking tight, and each press of his fingers inside of him made Severus's cock twitch. He wanted inside. God. He wanted inside so badly.

He caught Potter's mouth with his, kissing him as his thumb stroked beneath Potter's balls and his fingers fucked him slowly, steadily. Potter twined his fingers in Severus's hair, and he kissed him eagerly, tongue pressing into Severus's mouth, teeth nipping his bottom lip.

"I love the way you taste," Potter said. He ran his tongue across Severus's lip, then kissed him again. "Like whisky and--" He broke off with a cry, and his hips jerked up as Severus's fingers crooked inside of him and brushed across that little nub. "FuckohGodfuck--" He looked at Severus, wide-eyed. "What the hell--"

"Prostate, Mr Potter," Snape said with a smirk, and then he kissed him roughly, pulling his fingers away, and sliding them up his own cock, smearing the oil over his skin. "Relax," he said. "Breathe; it'll make this bloody easier on both of us."

Potter licked his lip and nodded as Severus slid between his spread thighs. He stroked his thumbs up Potter's crease, pulling him wide, and then pressed the blunt head of his cock to Potter's hole.

"Breathe," he snapped again, and he groaned as he pushed in past the tight ring of muscle. Potter arched beneath him, teeth gritted, his face twisted as he breathed out.

Tight. So fucking tight. Severus clenched the sheets, forcing himself to slow down as he pressed deeper into Potter, easing in.

And then Potter pushed up, looking at Severus with wide eyes, and gasped, "Fuck me."

Severus thrust in.

Potter's fingers dug into his shoulders and he laughed, arching his neck and Severus couldn't resist nipping the soft skin, then licking it lightly as he pulled out and pushed back in.

"Oh Christ," Potter said, rocking his hips up. "Hurts--don't you _fucking_ stop, you bastard--" He turned his face to Severus's throat, his mouth open and wet against it. "Feels amazing-"

Severus pulled Potter's legs up, draping them over his arms as he pressed into him slowly, then with speed and force, lifting Potter's arse from the bed with each stroke and grunt.

"Your arse," he groaned, and his balls slapped against Potter's skin. "Merlin, so good--"

Potter circled his hips. "Yeah?" He bit Severus's jaw. "Give me more. Come on." He pulled Severus's hand to his cock. "Fuck--want to come with you inside me--" He arched up and cried out.

With a moan Severus shifted onto his knees, fucking Potter in quick, hard thrusts, his fingers twined with Potter's, Potter's heavy cock sliding wetly through their hands.

Potter's leg slid off Severus's arm, foot pressing against the edge of the bed, and he pushed up, toes flexed. "Come on, damn it," he choked out, slamming his head back into the mattress. "Oh, Christ--"

Severus slammed into Potter, his hips hard against his arse, and he twisted his hand up Potter's cock. His hair swung forward with each thrust, sticking to his damp cheeks, catching on the corner of his mouth, and he could taste the acrid tang of desire deep in his throat.

"Severus," Potter cried out, one hand flying out to press against the headboard as he arched beneath Severus, and he came hot and sticky across their fingers, his arse clenching and clenching and clenching around Severus's cock.

Christ. Merlin. Oh, fuck---

Severus jerked Potter's legs up and he fucked him harder now, his balls tight and heavy and he fucking wanted Potter--wanted Harry; he wanted to fuck him and stretch him and God he was so bloody tight and--

Potter scraped his fingers over Severus's nipples, and Severus threw his head back, his hair tumbling back from his forehead and he shoved into him, his hips circling, and he came with a sharp cry and fell onto Potter, gasping.

It took a moment before he realised Potter was stroking his fingertips lightly through his hair.

He raised his head.

Potter grinned sleepily at him. "That," he said, voice thick and sated, "was without doubt the best sex I've ever had."

"Shut up, Potter," Severus said as he pulled out and settled next to him.

"No, really." Potter curled against Severus, laying his head on his chest. "Fucking amazing." He pressed a kiss to Severus's chest. "And I don't think it was just the beer."

Severus snorted, his mouth pressed to Potter's hair. "I suppose I am to find myself grateful for that, given that I'm being compared to two Weasleys?"

"You should, you sod." Potter's breath was warm against his skin, and he yawned. "I'm going to sleep a little now."

"Then for God's sake stop your inane nattering." Severus smoothed Potter's hair; it popped back up into its usual mess.

He stared out the window at the waning moon, hanging low in the dark sky.

******************************

The journal cracked and sparked and sent Croaker stumbling back from the table with a curse. Orange-pink smoke poured from the page, filling the kitchen with the reek of rotting eggs.

Tonks threw open the back door, gagging. "Christ--what the hell--"

"Not good?" Kingsley asked, pulling Croaker to his feet.

He shook his head, the tips of his white hair singed. "Not good," he said grimly.

Emma bit her lip and slipped out of the kitchen.

Not good at all.

*********************************

Severus couldn't sleep, and it wasn't just that Potter was snoring loudly into his shoulder or that pink-gold sunlight was beginning to gleam through the oak trees outside the window.

He pushed Potter to one side and rolled his eyes as he snuffled and grunted and curled into a ball around a pillow.

Trousers on the floor, shirt hanging off the corner of the wardrobe--and how the bloody hell it got there, Severus had no clue, but he slid it on and closed the door behind him.

His mother was in the kitchen, frowning into the near empty pantry. A cup of steaming tea sat on the counter and Severus took a sip of it.

"Do you have anything ingestible in this house besides whisky?" Eileen asked.

Severus shrugged. "There should be porridge in there."

Eileen rolled her eyes and shut the cupboard, turning to swat her son's hand away from her mug of tea. "Did you and Harry enjoy yourselves?"

"Oh, bloody hell." Severus eyed her in horror, and her smirk widened. "You're a wretched mother."

"I have a very loud son," she said over the rim of her mug and she smiled at Severus's flush. "It's not as if I didn't expect it."

Severus took the mug of tea from her and stomped down the stairs, ignoring her laughter.

*******************************

Harry stretched in the bed, aching and sore. He blinked into the sunlight streaming through the paned window; it spilled warm and golden over the rumpled bed, dust glittering in it, almost like magic.

He grinned and rolled over.

The other half of the bed was empty. Harry's smile faltered.

He sat up slowly, with a wince. "Snape?"

No answer.

Harry picked his clothes up off the floor and headed for the shower.

********************************

There was a note on the kitchen counter, and Harry grabbed it eagerly. Snape hadn't been upstairs, or even in his workroom and Harry was fairly certain that didn't bode well for whatever it was that had happened last night.

His arse twinged.

The note was short, simple.

_At market. Back soon. Eileen_

Harry glared at it and crumpled it in his fist before tossing it towards the rubbish bin. It bounced off the rim and rolled across the floor.

That meant only one thing--and he wouldn't have. But of course he would have because he's an arrogant, bloody prick, Harry thought, and he took the stairs two at a time.

The mirror gleamed at him from between the bookshelves, sunlight dancing along the carved gilt frame.

Harry yanked a chair in front of it and sat down, arms crossed, staring at his reflection in the mirror, damp hair standing on end. He'd wait. He had plenty of damned time.

**********************************

Emma paused in the doorway to her room.

Professor Snape's satchel still sat on Dad's old school trunk at the end of the bed, and something about that twisted her stomach.

She'd heard all the talk of him in the common room. There were those who mentioned his name in a near reverential whisper, and those who curled their lip and called him a coward in tones that matched their parents', and those said nothing at all, but shivered when any mention of him was made.

Her father hadn't ever said much about him, not even when she'd asked. Just that he was a bastard and a murderer and that he'd once saved Dad's life, a long time back before she was even born.

She hissed softly and Nagaina slid out from a clump of waving green grass in the wallpaper. Emma traced her fingertips over the painted edge of the cobra's hood.

_What do I do?_ she asked her childhood friend, leaning her head against the wall.

The cobra flicked her tail. _I don't know, child._

Emma sighed and stared glumly into the corner. The cheval glass was turned, and she frowned. Whatever had the Professor done that for?

The mirror shivered and sighed when she tugged it around. "Oh, dear, oh, dear," it clucked. "I've never---oh, love. Your hair--"

"Shut it." Emma scowled and tugged at her stringy hair, smoothing it down. "It's not that bad--" And then she blinked and peered into the mirror.

She could almost swear--no, she had to be mad. She was seeing things.

She rubbed her eyes.

He was still there. Almost imperceptibly, like a ghostly outline, but she'd recognise those glasses anywhere.

And that frown.

"Dad?"

*****************************

Harry shifted in his chair.

This was bloody ridiculous. Merlin only knew where the bastard had landed and what if he needed--or was hurt---or--

Damn it.

Harry stood up.

Fine then. He'd just find the prick.

The mirror was cold against his palm.

***************************

Emma dug through her father's trunk, pulling out old school texts, and a broken Sneakascope, and oooh--a pair of vintage Levi's, just roughed up enough, that were wadded in a corner of the trunk under Dad's old school sweater. She tossed those on the bed; a little nip and tuck here and there, and they'd save her forty quid in one of those Muggle charity shops on King's Road West.

And then she found it, shattered fragments still wrapped in an old t-shirt.

Sirius's mirror.

Dad had never wanted to repair it, though she'd always asked him to when she was little and hadn't known better. But now--

She bit her lip. She didn't even know if she was right. Maybe she just imagined Dad in the other mirror, but she swore she'd seen his hand press against it for just the briefest moment.

It was at least something. And if he was there...well, this was a two-way mirror. Maybe...

She clutched the broken mirror to her chest and ran downstairs. It didn't matter if they thought she was mad.

**********************

Harry's breath caught. It was colder now, in the darkness, and he wasn't certain if that was because he was alone or not.

He took a step forward into the grey-black mist, feeling the chill tendrils twist over his skin. He was going to bloody kill Snape when he found him.

He just wasn't certain why yet.

*********************

Severus sat on the rough-hewn log, staring out onto English Bay. The waves rolled in steadily, sunlight sparkling across their white caps and a bald eagle swooped overhead, wings stretched wide as it circled the blue sky. He and Draco had come here often, usually early in the morning before the Muggles filled the sandy beach.

He smiled faintly. Draco had always removed his shoes and rolled up his trousers to walk along the water's edge, laughing like a child as the cold waves splashed up his bare calves. It was a side of him few had seen, Severus knew. Draco had always preferred to cultivate an air of bored disdain to keep others at arm's length.

Only with Severus had he let his guard down.

Severus closed his eyes. Five damned years to mourn.

Perhaps it'd been long enough.

He stood, brushing the sand from the creases of his trousers, and turned towards the palm trees and skyscrapers of the West End.

There was one last stop to make.

************************

_The library was small and filled with books from floor to ceiling, and the shelves were covered in dust, and though the mirror over the mantel was grimy and dim, it reflected his father's tense face, and his own, half hidden under greasy hair._

"He was your brother," Severus said tightly, and his father's shoulders tightened.

"No. Linus was a damned poof who deserved to die."

"You let him die," Severus snapped. "You could have saved him and you let him die. Your own brother."

Tobias turned, and his blue eyes narrowed. "Get out of my house, Severus or I'll ring the constable."

 

"I'd like to see you try that, Father." Severus's fingers tightened on his wand. "You know as well as I that they'd be no use against me."

His father took a step towards him, jaw tight. "Don't call me that."

"Father." Severus's lip curled. "Does it frighten you? Look at me. Your son. Everything you hate all in one package. A wizard and a poof. How proud you must be."

He ducked as his father's fist struck out, and it glanced off his shoulder, and then Tobias threw himself on Severus, pounding into him, fists hard and painful against Severus's chest and gut. He grabbed Severus's throat, pressing his fingers into the underside of his jaw and slamming him into a bookcase.

"I have no son," Tobias spat out.

 

"Yes," Severus snapped, "you damn well do." He jerked away, flicking his wand, and a flash of white light knocked Tobias back into the mantel, his head cracking sharply against the mirror.

His eyes widened.

Severus dropped his wand--Christ, he'd just meant to knock him back-- "Father!"

Glass shattered, falling around Tobias's body, bloody shards of sparkling silver.

Harry tumbled through the mirror, falling, falling, falling, until he landed with a thud on a thick Aubusson carpet. He blinked up at tall wall of portraits.

Phinellas Nigellus snorted down at him. "About time you showed." He crossed his arms and glared down at Harry.

Harry winced as he eased himself up and looked around.

The Headmaster's office.

"Hello, Harry."

He was sitting behind his desk and he looked over a pair of half-moon spectacles, his eyes twinkling.

"Professor," Harry breathed. "You're---but--"

"Oh, I assure you, I'm very much deceased, my dear boy." Dumbledore flicked his wand at a chair and it trotted over to Harry. "Do sit. Please."

Harry sat down gingerly in the wing chair and clutched the chintz arms as it clomped back over to the desk, grunting softly.

"Why am I here?" Harry asked. "And where's Snape?"

"Severus is off collecting his thoughts." Dumbledore pushed a tray of sweets towards Harry. "Pear drop?"

"No, thank you." Harry scraped a fingernail over the frayed chair arm. "You didn't answer the first question."

Dumbledore looked at him calmly. "Is it entirely necessary, Harry?" he asked softly.

Harry hesitated. "I reckon I want to know the truth about what happened." He looked up. "The journal knows that."

"You always were a clever boy," Dumbledore said with a faint smile. He stood up. "Come with me. I have something to show you. Something Severus would rather you not know, I suspect."

Harry stood up slowly and followed Dumbledore through an arched doorway into a smaller, private room, filled with comfortable chairs and wide bookcases and a tall rectangular mirror set in an ornate gold frame on two claw feet.

"You recognise this, of course." Dumbledore stopped before the mirror and Harry breathed in sharply.

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ was carved around the top of the mirror frame and Harry looked away.

"That can't be the real--"

"Only a representation, of course," Dumbledore said quietly. "But the magic is no different. All that surrounds you at the moment, Harry, is a mirror. A reflection of a man in words and paper and thoughts and memories. What you see is what Severus wishes you to see, whether or not he is aware of it. These are his memories after all."

"He wants me to see you?" Harry looked at Dumbledore incredulously.

"I'm afraid I never have paid much heed to what Severus wishes," Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with regret. "Follow me." He lifted his robe and Harry caught a flash of purple and green striped socks before he stepped over the mirror frame. The silver surface shimmered for a moment, then rippled, allowing him in.

Harry took a deep breath and looked into the mirror.

It was misty and grey, and he could see his own face reflected in it, but older, more lined, with grey at his temples. There was a hand on his shoulder, a man's hand, heavy and strong, and Harry closed his eyes before the face swam into focus.

He didn't need to see it. He already knew.

He stepped through.

***************************

Croaker frowned down at the remnants of the mirror. "You're certain you saw him."

"Yes," Emma said. "And Dad always said this had a communication charm on it, and if we could link it to the journal--"

"Then we could possibly bypass the wards," Croaker mumbled, stroking his chin. "Of course." He looked up at Kingsley and Tonks. "It would mean that someone would have to go into the journal via the mirror, however."

"I'll do it," Tonks said, her face pale.

Kingsley frowned at her. "I don't think that's entirely wise."

"I want to go." Emma crossed her arms over her chest as both Kingsley and Tonks glared at her. She held up a hand, cutting off their protests. "It's only fair. It's my dad in there, and if he's going to be stuck then I want to be stuck with him. Not out here." She looked at them both, pleading. "Please."

Tonks looked away. "Emma--"

Kingsley put a hand on Tonks' arm. He studied Emma for a long moment.

"I think the only one of us who has a right to go in after the idiots is Potter's daughter," Croaker said. He cast Reparo on the mirror and held it up. "You know damn well she's right, Kingsley." He hesitated, snapping his goggles back on. "Besides, she's Potter's blood kin. The wards on this mirror have a much better chance of accepting her through them than any of the rest of us.'

Kingsley sighed. "All right then."

*******************************

Harry walked through the Forbidden Forest with Dumbledore. "Where are we going?" he asked, stumbling over a root, and he swore he heard the leaves hissing at him in annoyance.

"To a meeting," Dumbledore said quietly, and Harry shivered in the chill air.

They stopped on the edge of a small clearing and Harry could see Snape pacing back and forth, his black cloak fluttering in the wind.

Another Dumbledore approached, and at the rustle of leaves underfoot, Snape whirled around. "Albus."

"Severus, my boy. You're early."

Snape shoved a potion phial towards him. "Drink."

Dumbledore quaffed the potion, barely making a moue of distatste as he handed the empty phial back to Snape. "Not quite as bad as the last dose."

"Cloves," Snape snapped distractedly. "Albus, I can't do this. You know I can't."

Dumbledore touched his arm; Harry saw his hand then, black and twisted as he remembered it to be. "There's no choice. You know that as well as I do. The potion is not going to last forever, and I've had a long life. I'm ready, Severus. I'm not afraid of what comes next, and you must protect Draco--and Harry."

Harry blinked and looked up at the Dumbledore next to him. He placed a finger to his lips, his eyes fixed on himself and Snape.

"You should never have touched that damned--"

"But I did," Dumbledore said wearily. "And I do not regret doing so.. I am tired of this argument. You know what you must do. I trust you."

"You're a damed fool then," Snape snarled, pulling his cloak tighter. "You take too much for granted, old man--"

The crack of a twig cut him off. "What was that?"

"A centaur, perhaps."

Snape ran a hand through his hair. "I won't continue this farcical charade; it's too much to ask."

"You agreed to do it, Severus," Dumbledore said firmly. "And that is all there is to it. And I would suggest that you make inquiries into Slytherin House. If someone knows---"

"Yes, I know," Snape snapped. "I know exactly what I am to do and why I am to keep an eye on the foolish brat."

"Then do so." Dumbledore turned, then hesitated, looking back. "I am sorry that I have placed you in this position, Severus."

Snape just looked at him. "Albus, there are moments when I hate you for consigning me to be your murderer."

"I know." Dumbledore's eyes softened. "I am sorry, my boy."

"Go to hell," Snape said quietly, and he brushed past Dumbledore, his shoulders hunched tightly.

Harry breathed out. "You asked him--"

"Yes." Dumbledore watched himself leave the clearing, and he sighed. "There was no other choice, Harry. I knew I was dying, and I knew what Draco had been asked to do. I could not allow him to take that path. Severus had killed before."

"His father," Harry said softly, thinking of a shattered, bloody mirror.

Dumbledore nodded. "It was an accident, but yes. And there were others, in the first war. Evan Rosier, for one."

Harry looked at him, startled. Rosier? "They were lovers."

"You asked me more than once why I trusted Severus," Dumbledore said, laying his hand on Harry's shoulder. "There were many reasons, Harry. His willingness to betray the Dark Lord. His attempt to save your parents. To save you. The fact that he gave his lover up when he could not turn him to our side. When he knew that Evan was planning an attack on Hogwarts itself. On the children they had just left."

Harry bit his lip. Possibilities were dashing through his mind. Defences. Trial motions. Legal maneuvers. "I could save him from Azkaban even, if he let me. Pensieved memories are admissible evidence."

"Yes," Dumbledore said with a small smile. "As are a set of documents of whose existence Severus knows nothing. Gringotts vault 838." He pulled a small gold key from his pocket and handed it to Harry.

"But this--" Harry frowned. "I mean, how am I to use this back in London?"

Dumbledore twinkled. "Oh, I rather think you'll find a way. I didn't bring you here for no reason."

Harry blinked. "You what?"

"I think it's time for you to go home." Dumbledore touched the scar on Harry's forehead. "And end a life debt. In the proper way--no matter what Severus thinks that to be."

"But I--"

"Goodbye, my boy," Dumbledore whispered. "Give my regards to Severus. And Harry?" He held up the blue potion phial that had been in Harry's pocket. "You don't need this any longer."

He disappeared in a swirl of mist and darkness.

******************************

The rolling green lawns of Capilano View Cemetery were neatly tended, and Severus could hear the rattle and hum of lawn equipment somewhere in the distance.

Oaks and firs dotted the wide stretches of grass, and it took him a moment to remember which tree he was looking for.

It had been fourteen months since he'd come here last. Fourteen months, one week and two days.

Draco was buried beneath a small cluster of maples. He'd insisted upon that particular spot when they'd realised there wasn't much hope in fighting the curse off. He'd laughed and said that he wasn't about to spend whatever eternity existed sweating during the damned summers. Shade it was, then, and the promise from Severus of a cooling charm in his casket.

He'd kept that promise.

The headstone was set flat into the grass in the Muggle manner, and Severus knelt next to it, dusting away the bits of grass and leaves that had settled into the carving. Damned trees. His fingertips traced Draco's name.

He closed his eyes.

"I wondered when you'd show up."

Severus jerked back, falling onto his arse, and Draco laughed down at him. He squatted next to Severus.

"Hi."

"Draco," Severus breathed, and he reached to cup his husband's face. His fingers slid through the pale skin, and Draco shook his head.

"You can't, Severus," he said softly. "I'm not really here."

"Of course you are," Severus snapped. "You're in front of me."

"No, you're sitting here talking to yourself." Draco rolled his eyes. "You know, for a brilliant man, you were always incredibly thick about the most ridiculous things."

"I was not!" Severus glared at him. "You were the most petulant, neurotic--"

Draco scowled. "At least I wasn't arrogant and supercilious!"

"I still miss you, you wretched brat," Severus murmured.

"I know." Draco sat down, and Severus was almost certain he could see grass poking through Draco's trousers. "So I'm here. Or at least part of me is. You do realise I'm just part of your memory, imagined to life for the moment."

"I've been looking for you." Severus plucked at bit of clover, pressing the green leaves between his fingers.

"You won't find me anywhere but here." Draco sighed. "How many times must I go over this? I'm _dead,_ Severus. And I rather think I've accepted that quite a bit better than you have."

"It's easier for you," Severus said, tired.

"Oh, you think?" Draco smacked at his hand, his cold fingers sliding through Severus's wrist. He glared at him. "You try spending eternity with Father."

Severus snorted.

"It's not funny," Draco said petulantly. "There are days I just want to strangle him, but of course, there's the question of how you commit patricide on a dead man."

"Petrify his ghost?" Snape suggested, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Draco considered. "That might work. Not that it matters because once again, I feel I should point out that I'm merely a figment of your imagination, and perhaps you should consider why you feel the need to talk to someone who doesn't even exist?"

Severus said nothing.

"I was ready to go," Draco said softly. "You know that. The damn curse hurt and we both knew it couldn't be stopped."

"I know."

"Then stop bloody blaming yourself for what you couldn't fix for once," Draco snapped. "And do stop to consider that this--" he gestured to himself "--is your mind telling you that. It's just easier to hear from someone else's mouth."

"I could have done more--" Severus started, but Draco cut him off with a sharp laugh.

"Honestly, I do love you, but you can be the most exasperating creature on earth at times," Draco stood up. "Just think about it, for Merlin's sake."

Draco's fingers skimmed Severus's cheek. "And really, Severus? _Potter?_ You must truly be desperate."

Severus opened his eyes. A quiet breeze ruffled his hair.

He was alone.

******************************

"Are you certain you want to do this?" Tonks asked, tucking Emma's unruly hair back behind her ears. "Your mother will have a fit--"

"She'll understand," Emma said, and somehow, she knew it was true. Despite their arguments, Mum would know why she'd had to go. If she couldn't get back. She shivered, and suddenly she hugged her godmother. "I love you, you know."

Tonks clung to her and kissed her temple. "You're going to make me all soggy, you know," she said with a sniffle. "I hate that."

"I know," Emma said with a muffled laugh that caught in her throat. "I'll bring him back, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that." Tonks looked over at Croaker. "Are you certain two of us can't--"

"Are you mad?" Croker didn't bother to glance up from his work. "These charms may not even hold the brat." He handed Emma the journal and the mirror. Three long strands of gleaming light twisted together, linking the journal and the mirror in a shimmering braid of gold and silver and white. "When you're ready, press your hand into the journal. Do not lose the mirror. It's your way back out."

Emma nodded and she wiped her damp palm on her jeans. "And to get out I just touch the mirror."

"Theoretically," Croaker said. "You've only ten minutes, though. I can't guarantee I can keep the wards open any longer than that. Don't dawdle."

Kingsley snorted. "Don't frighten the girl."

"I'm not," Emma said, lying. She licked her bottom lip and flipped open the journal. "Right. Here we go then."

Her hand hovered over the page. "See you in few?"

She pressed her palm into the journal, tumbling forward.

_Bloody wicked,_ she thought, clutching the mirror tightly.

*********************************

Harry stumbled out of the mirror, and he could hear Snape and Eileen's shouts all the way downstairs.

"What do you mean, you've no idea where he went? Bloody hell, Mother, do you realise whom we're talking about here?"

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me, Severus. I don't care if you're nearly twenty years older than me now; I am _still_ your mother, and I brought you into this world--"

Harry steadied himself on a bookshelf, blinking hard. Footsteps clattered down the stairs and the door slammed open.

"Don't you dare threaten me," Snape snapped at Eileen.

She flicked the back of his head.

"Christ, woman--" Snape stopped, staring at Harry. "Potter. "Where have you been?"

"Talking to Dumbledore," Harry snapped.

Snape looked taken aback. "To Albus."

"Yes, and he told me you're a bloody idiot. Why didn't you tell me he'd asked you to end his life?" Harry tugged at his fringe. "Do you realise what that does to your defence?"

"I'm quite aware of what it does." Snape hesitated. "I didn't give a damn."

"I am so bloody surprised." Harry glared at him, irritated. "Where the hell were you when I woke up?"

"I went out." Snape circled around the bookcase, eyeing him warily.

"You just thought you'd get up and go out? Without telling me? Is that normally what you do with your--"

"I couldn't sleep," Snape snarled, cutting him off. "I needed to think."

"About what?" Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, suddenly furious. "What exactly was there to think about, Snape? Were you feeling guilty for buggering me? Because I can assure you there was nothing for you to feel bloody guilty about. It was just a shag. Nothing but a shag---"

Then he was cut off by Snape's mouth on his. "Shut up, Potter," Snape growled against his lips, and for once Harry listened, sliding his arms around Snape's neck, pressing closer.

"Breathe," Snape murmured finally, pulling away just enough to kiss the corner of Harry's mouth.

Harry nipped his bottom lip. "Arse."

There was a thump and a thud and a _bloody fucking hell_ behind them, and they pulled away.

Emma blinked up at Harry. "Hi," she said weakly, sprawled across the floor, then she looked from him to Snape. "Okay."

Harry stared at her. "What the hell are you doing here? Have you lost your mind?"

"Oh, for Circe's sake," Eileen snapped, hurrying over to help Emma up. "Are you all right, child?"

"I think so." Emma rubbed her hip. "That was brilliant. Almost as wicked as hanging from a broom."

"Which you are forbidden to do," Harry snapped. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at it. "What am I supposed to do with you--you're not to be here; your mum would have a bloody conniption--"

"Will you please shut it for a minute?" Emma shouted. Harry fell silent, glaring at her, his arms crossed against his chest. Snape smirked. "You too," Emma snapped.

She looked back at Harry. "I'm here to get you." She held out the mirror; its glittering cords hung from the ceiling. "We're not certain it'll work, but it's the only shot we've got." She bit her lip. "Ten minutes and the wards on the journal close and we won't be able to get out. Ever."

Harry tensed. "Are you certain?"

Emma nodded and she swallowed hard. "There's an Unspeakable who's been working on it all day--Mr Croaker--"

Snape looked at her sharply. "Croaker?"

She nodded. "Augustus Croaker. He acted as if he knew you."

"Yes." Snape frowned, and he wrapped his arms around his chest.. "He tried to put me in Azkaban after the first war. I'm not surprised that he'd make the attempt to bring me back, just for the chance to throw me in again."

"I can keep you from there," Harry said. He gave Snape an even look. "If you help me." He put a hand on Snape's face. "Come back with me and let me try," he said softly. "Please."

Snape hesitated.

"Come on, Dad," Emma said, her voice shaky. "We've not much time."

Harry tucked a lock of lank hair behind Snape's ear, then stepped away, feeling oddly empty and lost. "Severus."

"Go," Eileen said, her hand on her son's shoulder. "You know you should."

Emma's fingers curled around Harry's hand and he stared at Snape. He held out a hand.

Snape turned to his mother. "I'm sorry--"

Eileen kissed his temple, smoothing his hair back. "I want you to live, Severus. Go." She touched his face. "I love you."

"I know." He kissed her cheek, then took Harry's hand. "If I end up in Azkaban, Potter..."

"You won't." Harry felt Dumbledore's key, heavy in his pocket. "Trust me."

Snape looked at him with dark, calm eyes that warmed Harry and twisted his stomach. "I do."

Emma pressed her hand into the mirror. "God, I hope this works."

Harry felt himself jerked back into a burst of light and mist.

****************************

Even in winter the city smelled of rain and ocean and Emma loved it almost as much as she loved London.

She shifted the bags of presents into one hand as she ran up the porch steps, under the sparkling white lights that she knew were her father's idea. The bookstore was still open for last-minute shoppers, and it was warm and brightly lit, and the Muggles were wandering about, staring idly at the shelves.

"Hullo, Will," she whispered to the frazzled wizard behind the counter--one of Dad's former half-blood clients whom the Aurors in Ottawa had accused of trying to hex the PM, not that everyone didn't think that was a good idea--and he blinked at her for a moment before smiling broadly for the first time in hours.

"They're upstairs," he said, nodding towards the door marked _employees only. _

She hadn't made it halfway up the stairs before her father was at the top, waiting for her. He had the tiniest bit of grey at his temples now. She kissed his cheek. "You look very distinguished. Like a proper barrister."

She set her bags on the kitchen counter. "I've presents for both of you from Tonks and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron."

"None from your mother?" Severus smirked at her, walking into the kitchen.

Emma blew him a kiss and he rolled his eyes. "Only a lecture on how I'm to keep you from murdering me in my bed."

"If I'd wanted to end your pathetic life, I should have done so long before now." Severus rifled through the bags and she smacked his hand.

Harry laughed.

"Later." She beamed at them both. "Let's go eat. I've news."

Harry and Severus exchanged a wary glance.

"Good news," Emma protested.

"I'll get my coat," Harry said. Severus snorted.

**************************

The Fountainhead was packed on Christmas Eve, but they were given a table in a quiet back corner, compliments of Malcolm, Eva the waitress told them as she set their menus down, and three Molsons followed shortly thereafter, once Harry had inquired to how she was doing post-op and she'd given them the rundown of every ache and pain and hormonal flash she'd had.

Severus lifted his glass as she walked away. "Potter, was it entirely necessary for you to ask her about the gauze and wire being removed from her vagina?

"I was curious." Harry grinned at him. "Besides, you know she likes me."

"Shut up."

Emma laughed, which was possibly the wrong thing to do as it drew both their attention to her at once.

"So what is this good news?" her father asked, turning his glass between his hands.

Severus raised his eyebrow. "Do tell."

Emma hesitated, for the first time nervous. She pushed her Molson aside. "Well, Douglas and I called it off."

"Thank God; McLaggen was an imbecile," Severus said over the rim of his glass, and Harry elbowed him sharply, sloshing beer over his hand. He scowled at him. "Cretin."

"That's not the good news." Emma twisted her napkin in hands. "Well, I mean I think this is good news, but Mum doesn't, really, but I hope you do. Maybe." She eyed them both anxiously.

"Well?" Severus snapped, setting his glass down.

She took a breath. "I'm pregnant."

They both stared at her.

"This is good," she said weakly. "You're not shouting yet."

And then they did.

*******************************

"She's asleep," Harry said, walking into the sitting room, and Severus handed him a glass of whisky. "She said to tell you thank you for the potion."

"I'd rather she not vomit over our best sheets in the morning," Severus said. He studied Harry. "Are you all right?"

Harry set his empty glass down. "It's just disconcerting. She's barely out of childhood herself."

"'She's twenty-five," Snape said dryly, sitting on the lounge. "Older than you were when she was born."

"Yeah, but I'm different." Harry gave him a small smile and sat next to him. "We're going to be grandfathers."

"Correction," Severus said with a shudder. _"You_ are going to be a grandfather."

"Oh, I rather think Harry's correct," Eileen said from her portrait on the wall.

Severus glared at her. "I'll put you in the damned attic."

His mother smirked at him.

"I don't suppose we could put Malfoy up there too," Harry murmured into Snape's shoulder. "Every time I go into the study he mocks me."

"I think you enjoy sparring with him."

"Maybe." Harry slid his arms around Severus's waist and curled up next to his husband. "You know I've always thought this room was a disconcerting place to hang your mother. We can't ever have sex in here."

Eileen rolled her eyes. "I'll turn my back."

"Mother," Severus said, "go visit that damned wall of Wealseys."

"I think not." Eileen glared. "I'm going to collect Draco and we'll pay a visit to my granddaughter. She always did like us better than the two of you."

"She's not your granddaughter---" Severus sighed; she'd already slid out of the frame. "She never listens."

Harry kissed Severus's chest. "I wonder whom she reminds me of."

"Shut up, Potter."

Severus pressed him back against the arm of the couch, kissing him as he flicked his wand at the lights. "Nox," he murmured against Harry's throat, and the mirror over the mantel reflected the lights of Vancouver glittering down from the Christmas sky.


End file.
